


Last Light of the Midnight Sun

by ArtemisPendragon (DestinyWolfe)



Series: The Devil's Tower [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Fantasy Racism, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Mind Control, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: c02e026 Found & Lost, Referenced past attempted sexual assault, Referenced past non-consensual relationship in later chapters, Resurrection, Romance, Slow Burn, So much angst, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:50:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 160,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWolfe/pseuds/ArtemisPendragon
Summary: Molly is dead, and then he's not. An insidious darkness falls over Wildemount as tensions between the Empire and Xhorhas deepen, driven by conflicts far beyond petty mortal disputes. Searching for answers about Lucien and the Tomb-takers, the Mighty Nein uncover a web of lies and deceit more complicated than they ever imagined. Ancient evil forces awaken, and long-buried secrets emerge, revealing connections between Molly and Caleb's pasts that could spell disaster for all of Exandria.





	1. Part I Chapter I: The Commander and the Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, folks!! My smoking dumpster fire of a fic, complete with ridiculously self-indulgent revenge, romance, and drama. I originally wrote this as a therapy project, but I'm putting it out there for anyone else who might find it therapeutic, or at least entertaining. Love y'all! 💜
> 
> NOTE: I wrote like 99% of the outline for this story directly after watching episode 26, so it's an AU from that point on with only a few later-in-canon things thrown in for flavor. Basically it's just me screwing around in Matt Mercer's beautiful world and taking EXCESSIVE creative liberties.

**PART ONE: THE LETTER**

___________

**CHAPTER ONE**

**THE COMMANDER AND THE QUEEN**

Asmodeus sat on his throne and thought about the end of the world. His hellhounds slept at his feet, a sulfurous smell rising from their greasy black fur. He tilted his head back until his horns scraped against fire-hardened bone. His throne was that of a conqueror king, crafted from the bones of his enemies. It was the perch from which he would watch the world burn.

There were so many ways the world could end. Asmodeus had once been a champion of the gods, a warrior against the creatures crawling out of the foulest plains of existence. Now, he sat on a throne of gilded bones in Nessus, the Ninth Layer of Hell. The gods had granted him the souls of wicked mortals to siphon energy from, fueling his power in ways that even godhood could not. Asmodeus used this power to rule over the Hells, keeping his underlings from tipping the delicate scales of order and chaos in the mortal realms above. It was a strange arrangement, but it worked.

“My king.” The poisoned-honey voice of Asmodeus’s most beloved consort pulled him from his musings. Asmodeus rose to his feet as Bensozia, Queen of Hell, strode into the throne room. Her cloak was made of living flames, dancing across her skin as she paused and bowed low before the throne. A tiny half-smile curled her lips. “You called for me?”

Asmodeus stepped down from the dias and approached. He put two fingers under her chin, tilting her head up. “Bensozia the Beauty. I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything, my love.”

Asmodeus stroked her curving black horns, hands sliding down her face, tracing her full lips and the sharp ridges of her high cheekbones. He leaned in close, lips inches from her ear, and whispered, “Bring me nine children.”

“Children, my king? You already have thirteen. I’ve seen to that.”

Asmodeus drew back. He shook his head. “Not children of my own. Children I can shape to my will—mortal souls I can craft into weapons.”

Bensozia’s eyes narrowed. Asmodeus stroked his palm down her jaw to cover her throat, thumb digging into her pulse point. “There’s a war coming. A second awakening. Our allies are scattered, lost. Leaderless. There’s no way they’ll make a successful assault on Vasselheim in their current state. We failed before because we didn’t have a direct course of action. We didn’t think it out. Didn’t plan, didn’t organize.” Asmodeus flicked his tail. “I’m a commander. A master of order. If anyone can organize the Betrayer Gods, it’s me. And once I have their permission to play the part of general, taking the mortal planes will be a menial task. From there, we can make an assault on Vasselheim. We can win.”

Bensozia frowned. She tilted her head. “That explains nothing. Why do you want nine mortal children?”

“Patience. I’m getting there.” Asmodeus stroked her throat. Her skin was soft, smooth. Hot as the flames that followed her like a faithful dog, slinking around her ankles and licking at her fingertips. “I have to prove to our allies that my rule is eternal, and my orders always obeyed. If the fiends living in the material planes continue to wreak havoc on the mortal kingdoms, I’ll look weak. I must control my denizens. All of them.” He paused, scanning his lover's unreadable face. “And I’ll need spies. Devout followers, worshippers capable of conducting complicated and powerful rituals.” He smiled at her. “You know all about that, don’t you? Your followers have always had a nack for that variety of magic.”

Bensozia raised one eyebrow. “I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t understand your plan. These spies—would they be devils? Fiends? There’s no devil the mortals would tolerate, let alone obey.”

Asmodeus's smile broadened. “My dear,” he said, “that’s where you’re wrong.” He took a step back, releasing his grip on her throat. He crossed his arms, tail switching from side to side. “There’s a mother who recently made a deal with you. She offered her son’s soul in exchange for his life.”

Bensozia nodded. “Yes. A tiefling woman.” Her eyes narrowed, then widened. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

“Bring me the woman,” Asmodeus said, “and her child. We’ll start with one. The other eight will come in time. Mortals will give up anything if the price is right.”

Bensozia bowed her head. “I’ll do what I can.”

“You’ve never failed me.” His proud words masked a silent threat.

° ° °

Asmodeus returned to the throne. He sat there in gentle contemplation for several hours before footfalls sounded outside the throne room. He sat up straight as Bensozia entered the room, followed by two legion devils in thorny armor. Between them they dragged a young woman with dark purple hair and lavender skin. She wore torn, dirty clothes, and her finely-shaped face was streaked with tears. Behind her came a third legion devil, dragging a young child. The child struggled, kicking and punching, but the legion devil marched on unhindered by the useless blows.

“My king,” said Bensozia, “the mother and child you asked for.”

Asmodeus smiled serenely at the tiefling woman and her struggling child. “On your knees,” he commanded, and the legion devils threw the mother forward, one putting his spiked boot on her back to keep her down. The third pushed the child to his knees, holding him there as he tried to slip away. “What’s your name?” Asmodeus asked the woman. 

The tiefling woman stared at the ground, tears dripping off her chin. She wrapped her arms around her chest, head bent and legs folded under her. She visibly shook, tremors racing through her lithe body. “Rakasha, your Highness.”

Asmodeus stepped down from the dias and approached. His red robes swirled around him, licking at his boots like bloody tongues. He leaned over the cowering tiefling. A slow smile spread across his face. “Rakasha. Is this your son?”

Rakasha nodded. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. 

“He’s fighting hard for someone so terribly afflicted.” 

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

Asmodeus straightened up. “Bring me the child.” The legion devil shook the child violently, momentarily stunning him, and then threw him down beside his mother. Immediately, the child was up and running. The legion devil caught him by the back of his shirt, swung him around, and threw him down with a grunt. 

“Kneel before your king,” Bensozia hissed. Her eyes flashed white fire. 

The little tiefling raised his chin. He looked up, straight into Asmoedeus’s eyes. “You’re not my king.” His voice was high and wavering, faintly accented like his mother’s. _Rexxentrum_ , Asmodeus thought. No wonder the pair looked so impoverished and thin. The capital of the Dwendalian Empire wasn’t known for its kindness toward tieflings. “I don’t belong to you.” The child bared his fangs, a flash of white in the dim hall. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Bensozia stepped forward, looking mutinous, but Asmodeus raised a hand for her to halt. With a resentful look, she obeyed. 

Asmodeus chuckled, shaking his head as he straightened up. He made a sweeping gesture at Rakasha, and the legion devils dragged her back to her feet. “He’ll do,” Asmodeus said. 

“Please, have mercy!” Rakasha sobbed as the guards dragged her toward the door. “Let me say goodbye. One more time, let me say goodbye!”

“You should’ve thought to ask for that when we made our bargain,” said Bensozia coldly. “We’ve been merciful enough. You have your life, and your child has his. Don’t ask for more than you deserve.”

Rakasha cried out as the legion devils pushed her through the massive double doors at the end of the throne room. Asmodeus pulled the tiefling child to his feet, holding him in place, forcing him to watch as the doors slammed shut, cutting off Rakasha’s screams. Asmodeus shook him. “What’s your name, child?” 

The child twisted in his grasp, red eyes full of pain and rage. To Asmodeus’s delight, there was no trace of fear. “Lucien,” the child replied, fists clenched and head held high.

“Lucien,” Asmodeus’s lips curved into a sharp smile. “Remember this moment, Lucien. Remember what our kind is capable of. Hold onto that hatred, child. Hold onto that hatred, and you will always have a purpose.”

Lucien looked up at him, fearless red eyes narrowed, tiny fangs bared. “Someday,” he said, “I’m going to kill you.”

Asmodeus rose to his feet, chuckling. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

One of the legion devils dragged the child out of the room, ignoring the blows raining down from tiny lavender fists. The double doors opened and the devil and the tiefling disappeared. The doors slammed shut. Asmodeus felt Bensozia’s gaze on him, hot as the fire she wreathed herself in. His smile grew. He stepped onto the dais and settled himself on his gilded throne. Voice low and rumbling, he said, “I’ll speak to the other fallen gods as soon as possible, and tell them my plan of action. And then, should they agree to that plan, our preparations will begin. We’ll start with the other eight children. The task of training them will belong to you.” 

Bensozia remained silent for a moment, haughty head held high. “Yes, my king.” Her voice was as empty as her eyes. “I won’t fail you.”

“I know you won’t.” Asmodeus sat stiff and steady in his seat of power, every inch the infamous commander of the legions of hell. “War is coming,” he said, “and before the blood has dried, I will sit in Vasselheim on a throne of immortal bones.” 


	2. Part I Chapter II: The Marauder and the Monk

**CHAPTER TWO**

**THE MARAUDER AND THE MONK**

_Twenty-five years later…_

Mollymauk Tealeaf woke up in a shallow grave in the middle of nowhere with a mouth full of dirt and a violent, throbbing headache. Lungs burning, muscles stiff with cold, he clawed at the frozen earth. He burst through the dirt and sprawled in the freshly fallen snow. Coughing violently, he ducked his head and tucked his knees up to his chest. His eyes watered, body shaking, bloody fingers already numb and frozen. He wiped his face and found that his lips were coated in long-dried blood. For a moment confusion overrode everything. And then the memories came flooding back.

_The creature standing over him grinned, driving his blade into Molly’s chest until the tip sank through to the grass beneath. Molly inhaled, blood in his lungs, surging up his throat and into his mouth. The world spun. Time held its breath. He waited for fear to take hold, limbs numb and cold, but the pain drowned in disappointment and indignance. His life was borrowed, he knew that. But he’d hoped for a few more years, months, days. There were things he hadn’t done, places he hadn’t seen. Stars he hadn’t counted. Words he hadn’t said._

_Lorenzo’s face stayed in focus as a burst of white light blurred Molly’s vision. Molly refused to close his eyes, to look away._ Well fuck you too, _he thought, and spit red in his killer’s face._

_Lorenzo wiped the blood from his pale skin. “Respect,” he said, and twisted the glaive with both hands. Blood poured from Molly’s mouth, and he tilted his head back to watch the snow falling gently from the darkened sky._

Lightning flashed, thunder shaking the earth. Molly snapped back to the present. Shivering, he tucked his hands under his bloodstained shirt. He still had his vest, belt, and boots, but his coat was missing. Someone had draped the Platinum Dragon tapestry over him; he wrapped himself in it, shivering violently. 

As the initial shock wore off, Molly realized he didn’t know who had survived the fight with the Iron Shepherds. Clearly at least one of his companions had—he had a feeling Lorenzo wasn’t the type to bury his enemies—but just because someone had buried Molly didn’t mean everyone had made it out alive. For all he knew there was another shallow grave nearby, another unmarked mound beside the Glory Run Road. 

Molly panicked. Pushing himself to his feet, he made it a few feet and fell to his knees. He caught himself on the upright pole at the head of his grave. He held on, dizzy and disoriented; after a moment, he knelt again, shaking hard. 

When he’d died, he’d felt no fear. 

Now, he was terrified.

Blinking snow out of his eyes, he focused on breathing. When his vision cleared, he noticed a folded piece of paper tied to the pole. With shaking hands, he undid the string and turned his back into the wind, sheltering the fragile page. Most of the words were smudged and blurry—he had trouble reading text in pristine condition, never mind a hastily-scrawled letter in smudged ink—but he recognized the names woven through the message. _Yasha, Jester, Fjord, Nott, Beau, Caleb._ He closed his eyes, folding the letter and tucking it into his ruined shirt. Crusted blood and dirt stuck to his skin; he grimaced, pulling the letter back out and cradling it carefully in one hand. He couldn’t risk destroying it. Right now, it was his only tie to reality. The last frayed thread of sanity. Once he found his way back to civilization, he’d find someone to read it. And then, no matter how long it took, he would find the Mighty Nein again.

Beyond the pole someone had stuck his scimitars in the ground, crossed in an X and half-buried in the growing snowdrifts. Molly pulled them out of the snow, slipping the blades into his belt, numb hands fumbling with the straps. 

He made it ten paces before he blacked out. When he regained consciousness, he was spread-eagle in a snowdrift. One hand had frozen around the hilt of Summer’s Dance, the blade half-drawn and dusted with white. The other hand held the crumpled note.

Lightning licked the sky, illuminating dark gray clouds. Thunder followed—the deep, furious voice of the storm. Delicate snowflakes fell, tickling Molly’s lashes and accumulating on his cheekbones. His breath billowed between blood-crusted lips, escaping into the lingering clouds hanging heavily overhead. He didn’t have the strength to move. In a moment of half-insane amusement, he wondered if the cold would kill him. Would he keep dying and rising until the spring came and melted the frozen drifts? Like a flower blooming too soon, bright petals wilting in the cold?

He was half-conscious when he heard heavy bootsteps in the snow. He lifted his head, straining to see through the storm. He blinked and found himself staring up into the shadowed faces of three hooded figures. 

“Get him up.” A man’s voice, smooth and low. A puff of white fog slipped out from under his hood, spiraling into the grey night. At his command, his two companions bent down, gripping Molly’s shoulders in tight, gloved grasps. They hauled him upright, ignoring his hiss of pained protest. “She said to be back by sunrise,” the man said. 

One of the men holding Molly scoffed. “As if we can tell what time it is in this fucking weather.”

The first man tugged his hood down lower, brushing snow off his cloaked shoulders. “Come on. We’re wasting time.”

“For fuck’s sake,” the man to Molly’s right hissed. “It’s cold as an ice devil’s balls out here. I can’t feel my fucking toes.”

The first man ignored him. “Let’s move.”

Molly didn’t have the strength to fight as they forced him forward, half-dragging him through deep drifts, leaving a trail of dried blood in the pristine snow.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Four nights after the battle with the Iron Shepherds, Beau, Caleb, Nott, and Keg reached Shady Creek Run. They were stopped at the gates by a couple of bare-armed, muscled men in piecemeal armor wielding hooked, rusted blades. Without a word, Nott pulled out a gold coin and placed it in her upturned palm. Caleb and Keg placed a gold each in Nott’s hand. Beau, who had spent the last few nights of travel bloody, bruised, and in pain—mental and physical—felt a surge of fury at the defeated looks on her companions’ faces. She opened her mouth, fiery words burning her tongue, but Keg gave her a hard look and she swallowed the anger down. She pulled out a coin and dropped it in the pile, crossing her arms and glaring at the thugs as they snatched up the gold and stood aside. 

The ragged party passed through the gates and into the town. Shadows danced on fresh-fallen snow. Beggars, hands black with frostbite, lingered in alleyways and knelt on frozen streets. Their heads were bowed, thin cloaks wrapped around thinner frames. As the party passed, a few held out trembling hands, eyes bright with silent pleas. 

“Auhhg, fine.” Beau pulled out three silver and dropped one in each of the beggars’ hands. As she did, Keg caught her by the wrist. Beau frowned, pulling away. “What?”

“That’s not a good idea. If you’ve got coin to spare, these people will jump you the moment they get the chance.”

Beau looked at Caleb, who had wrapped his long, dirty coat around himself to hide his obvious shivering. “Whatever.” She tucked her coin pouch under her robes. “We need to find somewhere to crash. Caleb’s not looking too hot.”

Nott shot Beau a narrow-eyed look of disdain. She glanced up at Caleb, her expression turning to one of concern. “You’re right,” she said in her wavering, high-pitched voice. “We all need to rest.”

“And come up with a plan,” Beau added. “We’ve gotta get the others back before that dickbag and his fuckface goons move on.”

“I know a place.” Keg indicated a particularly shady ally full of grimy puddles and discarded trash. “It’s nothing fancy, but if you’re hiding from prying eyes, it’s the place to be.”

“Great.” Beau crossed her arms, sighing dramatically. “This situation couldn’t get any shitter, so why the fuck not.”

Keg turned away. Beau felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t Keg’s fault. Not directly. But then Keg started walking away without a glance back at Beau, and the anger flared again. Hands clenched and jaw set, Beau followed her into the ally. Caleb and Nott fell in behind them, and the little group made their way toward the far-right side of town.

The inn wasn’t really an inn. It was more of an underground tavern with a few old, grimy rooms at the back. The locks were broken, the handles loose and shaky, but Beau was too glad to be out of the cold to care. The moment they descended the rickety stairs and emerged into the relative warmth of the cramped establishment, her shoulders relaxed, hands unclenching. Beside her, Caleb exhaled. Nott stopped rubbing her hands up and down her arms and untucked her ears from under her hood. 

Keg didn’t seem phased by the change in temperature. She walked up to the bar, hoisted herself onto a stool, and called the barkeep over. The owner of the establishment was an old, grizzled human man with an astonishing lack of teeth and an even more astonishing abundance of scars. “We need two rooms.” Keg pulled out two gold pieces and slammed them down on the counter. “And we need to be left alone for the night.”

The barkeep took the gold. He nodded and bared his toothless smile. “Whatever the lady asks,” he said, and pocketed the coins. Bending over, he retrieved two old, rusted keys and handed them to Keg. “The two rooms to the left of center are free. Food and drink come separate.”

Beau clenched her fists. This place should cost two copper a night at most, given the state of violent disrepair and the ever-present stink of unwashed mercenaries that hung, thick and rancid, over the room. Keg had given this man two gold for two rooms when anything over a silver was highway robbery. _Well, that’s what it is,_ Beau thought, contempt rising like bile in her throat. _Fucking cutthroat bastards._

As Keg slid off the stool and gestured for the others to join her, Beau glanced around the room. There were five long tables set close together; sitting around the one closest to the fire were a group of rough-looking men and women in well-worn hide armor. One, a woman with curly, dark-red hair and gleaming hazel eyes, met Beau’s stare with cold indifference. Beau refused to look away until Keg’s voice snapped her back to attention.

“I’ll take the room on the right,” Keg said. “Beau can share my room. Caleb, Nott, you can take the room on the far left. Does that work?”

Caleb and Nott exchanged a quick glance. Nott nodded. “Alright,” she said. “C’mon, Caleb.” Together the pair made for their assigned room, wrenching open the rusted door and disappearing inside. 

Keg headed for the second room. She paused by the door, glancing back at Beau. “You coming?”

Beau shrugged. “When I feel like it. I’m gonna get a few drinks first. Maybe chat up the locals.” She smirked at the nervous look that passed over Keg’s face. “I’m kidding. I’m not in the mood for socializing. I mean, not any more than I normally am.”

Keg nodded stiffly. She opened the door to her room. “’Night, Beau.”

“’Night.” Beau crossed to the bar and climbed onto one of the barstools. “Hey.” She slapped the counter. “Two shots of straight whisky, right here.”

The barkeep shot her a disgruntled look. He pulled out two grimy glasses and poured the golden liquor with scarred, trembling hands. Wordlessly, he slid them down the bar. “Two silver,” he said, and she slid the coins toward him. One fell off the bar and clattered at the barkeep’s feet; he gave her a reproachful look and stooped to pick it up.

Beau downed the first shot with a grimace. She wiped her lips, throat and eyes burning. “Ahhhg, thanks.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “That’s the good stuff.”

The barkeep grunted. He shuffled away, pulling out a dirty rag and continuing to wipe down the counters.

Beau sat at the bar for a long time after the second shot was gone. She stacked the glasses upside-down, fingers shaking despite the warmth emanating from the nearby hearth. Folding her arms on the counter, she pressed her forehead to her forearms. Closing her eyes, she focused on her breathing, trying to find her inner calm. 

She quickly decided she didn’t havean inner calm. The noisy patrons weren’t helping either. She was just about to turn in when the front door slammed. The stairs creaked, four pairs of boots stomping down the rickety stairway and into the tavern, raucous voices raised in careless revelry. 

“Gods, that was one hell of a walk, Martyn,” said a gravelly female voice. “At least you made some coin. If you’d come back empty-handed, I would’ve strangled you at the gates.”

A man chuckled. “It was worth it. Tonight, we drink like kings.”

Beau looked up as the ragtag bunch traipsed into the tavern. They made for the table where the hazel-eyed woman and her crew were sitting, moving chairs and pushing two tables together to accommodate their large party. “Martyn,” said the hazel-eyed woman. “Did you bring me any gifts?”

“Of course, Menera.” The man called Martyn—a tall, well-built half-elven man—bowed his head respectfully. He shrugged off his pack and set it on the table. “I found some pretty things for you on the Glory Run Road. Lots of unsuspecting travelers down that way. And in this weather… well, most of ‘em can’t afford a fight.” He smirked, eyes flashing in the firelight.

Beau didn’t realize her fingernails were digging into her arm until warm blood welled against her fingertips. She sat up straighter, turning away from the cutthroat gang. “Hey, barkeep.” She banged her fist on the counter. “Two more.”

The barkeep obliged her. “Three silver.” She tossed him the coins, and he slid the shots down to her. “Enjoy,” he said, and turned away with a scowl.

“Thanks, I will,” said Beau bitterly. She downed the shots in rapid succession, slamming the glasses on the bar. Holding onto the counter for support, she slid off the stool. She knew she should go to bed. Her vision blurred, ears ringing, fingers numb. She felt warm, fuzzy. Like she was floating on burning clouds. But instead of heading for her room, she turned to watch the mercenaries gather up their things and prepare to head out.

Menera pulled a variety of trinkets from Martyn’s pack, gold flashing in her gloved hands. As Beau staggered to her feet, Menera shot her another cold look. Beau stared back, still clinging to the counter, until Menera turned away. “Let’s go,” Menera called to her team, and they followed her up the stairway and into the night. Just before Menera disappeared, she drew a folded piece of red cloth from Martyn’s bag. She made a pleased sound, wrapping it around herself in a whirl of blood-red. For a split second, Beau caught a flash of woven color, of symbols stitched in painstaking detail against a crimson canvas. 

Through the haze of drunken weariness, something clicked into place. The anger that followed was so violent her muscled seized up and her nails dug into her palm deep enough to draw blood. Pushing off from the counter, she took a few unsteady steps. She grabbed her quarterstaff and made for the stairs, using the staff like a walking stick. She shouldered open the door, nearly knocking it off its rusted hinges, and emerged into the bitterly cold night air. Her breath billowed, wreathing her face. She inhaled, lungs burning with cold.

Menera and her crew paused at the mouth of the alley ahead. Most of them turned to look at Beau, drawing bent and chipped weapons as they fell into a casual defensive stance. Beau emerged onto the narrow street. She blinked back the fog obscuring her mind; as she did, Menera, half-hidden behind two broad-shouldered half-Orcs, stepped into a slanting beam of moonlight cutting through the clouds. The moonlight caught in the coat’s elegant symbols. They glowed liked silver-gilded runes.

“What do you want, girl?” Menera asked, voice sharp as the wicked blade in her hand. 

Beau hardly heard her. All she could focus on was the red coat hanging limply around Menera’s shoulders, bathed in moonlight. “Give that back.” Her voice was low, dangerous. “Give it back _now_.”

Menera frowned. She glanced at the men flanking her; they shrugged. “What?” Menera said. “We haven’t stolen from you. What could we possibly have of yours?”

“The coat.” Beau staggered forward, quarterstaff clenched in one hand, the other balled by her side. She jerked her chin at the gaudy garment. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

Menera rolled her eyes. She tapped her blade against her thigh, sighing. “My man found it lying by the roadside. Finders keepers, darling.” She adjusted the coat, running her fingers over the fine fabric. “If you want it, come and get it. I haven’t had a good fight in a while.” She paused, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “Not to suggest that you’re a worthy opponent, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Fuck you.” Beau gripped her staff tight in both hands. She swayed, caught herself, and ran at Menera, striking out with all her considerable strength. 

Menera easily sidestepped the blow. The half-orc to her right wasn’t so lucky; Beau’s second strike hit him full across the face, chipping his tusk and opening a nasty gash across his forehead. 

The alleyway exploded into a flurry of violence. Menera’s companions came at Beau from all sides, blades, whips, and flails drawn. Beau stumbled and nearly fell, her usual agility hindered by the whisky burning through her veins. 

She didn’t see Menera’s curved blade slicing down until it was too late. Blood spattered her arm. Pain followed, sharp and biting. She took a step back, wincing, right arm throbbing violently. Raising her staff, she spun it around her body, knocking back four mercenaries advancing from behind. With a snarl, she struck out at the half-orc to Menera’s right. The blow missed by a mile. Her staff struck the wall behind him, and he managed to land a solid punch on her momentarily exposed stomach. Gasping, she fell to one knee. She wrapped her injured arm around her stomach, clinging to her planted staff.

“Wait!” Menera held up a hand. Her crew stopped advancing. They looked at her, faces creased with confusion. Bending down, Menera smiled at Beau, baring her teeth like a snake preparing to strike. “This one has spirit. I’d like to beat it out of her myself.”

The thugs formed a circle with Beau and Menera at its center. Menera straightened up, turning her back on Beau and walking a few paces away. “I wonder,” she said, holding her sword to one side, “why such a strange garment means so much to you.”

Beau gritted her teeth. Blood ran, hot and sticky, down her arm. “This is your last chance to drop the coat and leave,” she said. “Or I’ll beat you so hard your grandchildren will have bruises.”

Menera laughed. Her crew joined in, grinning and elbowing each other. In the dim light of the ally, their teeth flashed, narrow eyes gleaming like crescent moons. “Big talk from a little girl.” Menera smirked at Beau over her shoulder. “That’s all it is.”

Beau charged. She let out a battle-cry, swinging her staff around to smack Menera across the back. Menera dodged, twisting to avoid the blow. In the next instant she tossed aside her sword, slipped into melee range, and punched Beau five times in rapid succession. 

The first punch struck Beau’s cheek, turning her head. The second landed on her sternum, knocking the breath from her lungs. The third, fourth, and fifth landed on her tensed stomach. Bruises spread under her skin. Menera danced out of reach, the stolen coat swirling around her lithe, nimble form.

Beau fell to her knees, gasping. Her head spun. Blood ran down her cheek, dripping off her chin. Red spattered the dirt under her knees. Her right arm was heavy and numb, shoulder throbbing violently. She felt like she’d been thrown under a cart, tossed off a waterfall, and then slammed against a brick wall, all in the span of thirty seconds. 

The half-Orc man with the chipped tusk stepped forward. He grinned as he leaned over Beau, gold eyes gleaming in the watery moonlight. “Fuck you, bitch.” He kicked Beau in the chest, knocking her onto her back. She coughed, tasting blood. 

“Alright,” said Menera. “Let’s pack it up. We’ve got better things to do than fuck with this little bitch. Isn’t that right, Gorna?”

The half-orc spat to one side. “Whatever you say, boss. You mind if I finish her off?”

Menera hummed. She approached, kneeling by Beau with one booted foot on the quarterstaff. She pointed her blade at Beau’s throat. “No,” she said. “She had others with her. I’m not in the mood to deal with vengeance.” 

Beau struggled to sit up, but Menera kicked her staff away, planting a foot firmly on Beau’s chest. The pressure sent jolts of pain through Beau’s body; for a moment she thought she would black out or be sick. Possible both. “This girl isn’t worth the stain on my blade,” said Menera. Without breaking eye contact, she shrugged off the stolen coat. Wadding it into a ball, she lifted her foot off Beau’s chest. Turning, she walked purposefully across the alley to a patch of filthy gutter water. She held the coat out over it.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Beau pushed herself into a sitting position. Her chest seized, and she fell back with a pained gasp.

Menera smirked. “I dare,” she said, and let it fall. The coat sent muddy ripples across the puddle’s surface. “You can have it,” Menera said. “I wonder: was it worth the trouble?”

Menera turned and walked away. Her companions followed, some of them laughing and cursing as they passed Beau. Gorna spit on the coat. He grinned at Beau, running a finger over his chipped tusk. “See ya, bitch,” he said. Still laughing and talking raucously, the mercenaries disappeared into the night.

° ° °

Beau lay where they’d left her. Her ribs ached, blood on her lips and pooling around her shoulder. As the adrenaline faded and numbness set in, she rolled onto her side and pushed herself to all fours. Crawling down the alley, she retrieved her staff. She used it to push herself to her feet. Every step was agony. Her chest was one big bruise; some of her ribs were cracked, if not broken. Her head ached, and her right arm—the one Menera had sliced open—was completely numb.

Beau fell to her knees by the puddle. Hands shaking, she pulled Molly’s coat out of the grimy water. Her eyes burned as she clutched the once-luxurious fabric in both hands, filthy liquid running down her arms and dripping off her elbows. “Fuck,” she whispered. “Fuck you, Molly. Fuck you, I’m sorry.”

Her head spun, blood and bile rising in her throat. She pulled off her robe and wrapped it around Molly’s coat. Curling on her side, she tucked her knees up, wrapping her arms around the soaking bundle. If Menera returned, Beau wouldn’t let her take it. _It’s not theirs,_ she thought as the world faded to grey. _No one can have it. Fuck them. Fuck all this bullshit._

She closed her eyes. In the waxing dark, she couldn’t tell if the warm tracks on her cheeks were from blood or tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Hey! Guess what?! I'm just *dramatic gay gesturing* so happy y'all are liking this disaster so far!! Big fuckin' thank-you to everyone who's read it; I sincerely love Critters with my whole heart. Can't believe I get to be in the most passionate, kind, and loving fandom ever!!! I am one lucky bitch!!


	3. Part I Chapter III: The Slaver and the Spellcaster

**CHAPTER THREE**

**THE SLAVER AND THE SPELLCASTER**

Jester woke to the sound of violent rattling. Sitting up, she rubbed the bleariness from her eyes. Instinctively, she reached for her ax, but something stopped her. Her hands were numb, wrists throbbing painfully. Blowing her hair out of her face, she sat up. As her senses returned, she realized her hands were chained in front of her. Someone was shaking the cage.

 _The cage_. It all came rushing back. The ambush. The struggle. The silence surrounding her like suffocating smoke, filling her lungs as a gag was shoved into her mouth, choking her. Panic tightened her chest. She scrambled to the back of the cage, manacles digging into her skin. Blood welled from her wrists. She tried to form a coherent sentence, but the half-orc woman rattling the cage beat her to it. 

“The boss is here to see you.” She grinned, flashing yellowing tusks. “He’s got some news. Something to do with your friends.”

“My friends?” Jester’s voice rose an octave. “Where are they? What did you do with them? If you killed them, I’ll fuck up your face so bad no one will ever look at you ever again!”

The half-orc rolled her eyes. “We didn’t kill them. We put them in separate cages. See?” She pointed to the tiny cages to Jester’s left and right. With her darkvision, she made out Fjord’s slumped form and Yasha’s hunched, tightly-bound body. “Besides, death isn’t the worst punishment I can dish out, devil.”

“Fjord!” Jester yelled. Fjord stirred, blinking. He turned to look at her, wearing an expression of weary confusion. And then he sat up straight, horrified realization spreading across his face, jerking at the chains around his wrists.

“Jester.” His voice was raw, ragged. Clearly, Jester wasn’t the only one who’d tried screaming for help. “Hey!” He glared at the half-orc. “You stay the fuck away from her, you hear me?”

“Ohhh, Oskar,” Jester whispered. She turned on the yellow-tusked woman, baring her fangs. She shuffled to the front of the cage, getting as close to her foe as physically possible. “Do you know who we are?” she said loudly. Before the half-orc could do more than open her mouth, Jester answered her own question: “We’re the Mighty Nein. Have you heard of us? We’re kind of a big deal in Zadash. And Alfield. And Trostenwald. And Hupperdook. Actually, we’re just kind of a big deal in general, so if you haven’t heard of us yet, that’s pretty sad.”

The half-orc rattled the bars again. She smirked, taking a step back. “Yeah, no. Never heard of you. But trust me, devil girl: What Lorenzo’s about to tell you is way sadder than that. And that’s a promise.” With a cocky grin, she strode away across the clearing toward the distant flare of firelight filtering through the sparse trees. 

“Yasha,” Jester hissed, moving to the other side of her cage. “Psst! Yasha! Yasha, are you awake?”

Yasha turned her head. Her cage was just big enough for her to fit; any smaller, and she wouldn’t be able to move at all. “Jester.” Her voice was soft, worried. “Are you and Fjord alright?”

“I mean, we’re locked in cages and probably going to be sold to some really bad people or something, probably, but physically I think I’m okay. Fjord?” She turned back to Fjord, who was struggling with his manacles. “Fjord? Fjooord!”

Fjord grunted with frustration, slumping against the back of his cage. “What, Jester?”

“Yasha wants to know if you’re okay. Are you okay?”

Fjord sighed. "I'm not hurt. Just a bit banged up. You and Yasha doin’ alright?"

"I mean, I'm okay, but I don't know about Yasha. Let me check." Jester crawled back to the other side of the cage. "Yasha," she stage-whispered. "Fjord wants to know if you're okay."

"I can hear him," Yasha said. "I'm alright. A bit bruised from the ride, but other than that, nothing much."

There was a long silence. Jester shifted around, making a face as the manacles bit into her wrists. "Maybe we should make up a really mean song about Lorenzo," she said, forcing enthusiasm into her shaky voice, "and sing it at him when he comes back."

"That would really piss him off," said Fjord.

"I know, right? It would be so great."

"No, Jester, that's not what I’m sayin’. I'm not sure if you noticed, but we're in no position to piss off anyone right now." 

Jester was about to reply when loud, heavy footsteps sounded behind her cage. She twisted around as three figures emerged from the woods. She immediately recognized Lorenzo's bald head and pale skin. The other two were less familiar—a half-elven woman and a halfling man. The half-elf held a curved dagger, and the halfling had a crossbow tucked under his arm. Lorenzo carried a long, wicked glaive. The blade was stained with fresh blood.

"Evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Lorenzo flashed his prisoners a gold-gilded grin. He held the glaive in both hands, rotating it slowly. Blood slid down the shaft and dripped onto the snow-dusted grass. "You'll be happy to hear that your friends attempted to rescue you." He paused, planting the end of the glaive in the dirt. "You'll be less happy to hear they failed." 

Fjord sat up straight. Jester launched herself at the bars as Lorenzo and his two companions emerged into the dull firelight. Yasha's multicolored gaze fixed on Lorenzo, her body rigid and still.

"What did you do to them? Did you kidnap them, too?" Jester's heart raced, voice wavering. _It’s so much worse,_ she thought as Lorenzo’s grin widened _._ She swallowed a second wave of devastating panic.

Lorenzo twirled the glaive. He slid the tip of the blade between the bars of Jester's cage. Blood dripped down the shaft, bright red and viscous as honey. "No," Lorenzo replied. "I was merciful. I only killed one; the others I left alive.” He paused, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I needed someone to spread the word: The Iron Shepherds are not to be fucked with."

Fear and grief surged through Jester like lightning down a metal pole. Beside her, Yasha drew a deep breath. Fjord cursed loudly. "Who did you kill?" Jester shouted. She pressed herself up against the bars, the glaive's tip brushing her throat. She glared up at Lorenzo, defiant, furious. "Which one did you kill, dickface?" 

Lorenzo retracted the glaive, planting the hilt in the wet grass. He ran a finger over the razor-sharp blade. His finger came away red and dripping. He raised his finger to his mouth and smeared the blood on his tongue. "Mm.” He paused, closing his eyes, a contemplative look twisting his features. "He had spirit.” Lorenzo opened his eyes. The gilded grin was back. “He didn't surrender until his last breath. I can respect that. Unfortunately, an example had to be made. I have a reputation to uphold."

It was Yasha who first connected the dots. She slammed herself against the front of her cage with a sky-splitting shriek, steel bars bending under the strength of her grief and fury. As she did, the ghostly shadow of two huge skeletal wings unfurled from her back. The cage creaked as her manacles bent and the bars twisted. In her grief, she beat against the cage with her whole body, shaking and screaming like a wounded animal.

Jester's couldn’t stop the tears. She pressed her forehead against the bars, shaking her head, shoulders trembling. "No! That’s not true, you’re lying! He has to be lying, you guys. He _has_ to!”

Lorenzo turned to the half-elven woman. He gestured to Yasha with a snarl of contempt. "Put her down," he commanded. "If she breaks that cage, we're gonna have trouble."

The half-elf nodded stiffly. She approached Yasha's cage, raising a hand and muttering under her breath. Yasha went limp, eyes rolling back as she slumped against the bars. "She's sleeping," the half-elf said. "I didn't damage her. I’ll find a more permanent solution once the spell wears off—enchanted manacles, maybe—but I promise she'll be worth the same when she wakes up.”

Bowing her head, Jester leaned against the bars of her cage. She turned to look at Fjord, who was still cussing under his breath as Lorenzo and his goons walked away.

"Fjord.” Jester’s voice broke. She crawled toward him, pressing her forehead against the bars. Tears slipped down her cheeks, dripping off her chin. "Fjord, what do we do? We can’t… he has to be _lying_ , right? Right, Fjord?" 

"Son of a _bitch_!" Fjord snarled. "Soon as I'm outta here, I'm gonna gut that bald fuck myself." He paused, vibrating with repressed fury. " _FUCK_."

Jester closed her eyes. The bars pressed into her skin, leaving indents in her forehead and the bridge of her nose. "Fjord," she whispered. "They're going to torture us, and then they're going to sell us, and we'll probably die in these cages, and I... I just..."

"Jester." Fjord cut her off. His tone was steady, firm. "Jes. I won't let that happen, and neither will you. This is a real bitch of a situation, I agree, but we can't let these sick fucks get into our heads. We don't know if Lorenzo’s tellin’ the truth about Molly; until we do, we can't let that cloud our judgement.” He paused, taking a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, and Jester opened her eyes to find him watching her intently. "We haven't lost yet," he said. "You've gotta trust that. You've gotta trust us."

Jester half-smiled through her tears. She nodded, inhaling deep. "That was a good speech, Oskar.” Her shaky voice contradicted her humorous tone. "You sound like a dashing hero in some epic story or something. I actually feel really inspired right now.”

For a moment, the corner of Fjord's mouth quirked up. "That's good, Jester. That's real good. You hold onto that, alright?"

"Alright," Jester whispered. "Alright, Fjord."

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“She should be alright now.” The cleric leaned on the dented doorway of his decrepit temple. He was a broad-shouldered halfing with a scar on the bridge of his nose and a perpetual half-smirk. “However, there’s still the matter of payment.”

Nott turned to Caleb, watching his expression fall from relief to weary resignation. “How much do you need?” Caleb’s voice was soft. Defeated. Nott’s heart twisted. She felt a surge of resentment toward the smirking halfling. One hand curled into a fist, the other on her crossbow.

The cleric shrugged. “How much you got?”

Nott glared at the cleric with unveiled disdain. “If we were rich, we’d have gone to a real cleric,” she said, voice rising indignantly. “Isn’t that right, Caleb?”

Caleb shifted uncomfortably. “Uhm, Nott. He did save Beauregard’s life. I think we owe him something for that, _ja_?”

Nott didn’t break eye contact with the halfling. “Fine,” she said. “But once she’s conscious, Beau’s paying for it.”

“We can pay you fifty gold,” Caleb said, “and no more than that.”

“We spent the rest on liquor and prostitutes,” Nott said. The cleric stared at her. She adjusted her mask, heart racing, and added, “or whatever people around here spend their hard-earned money on.”

“Nott.” Caleb shot her a warning look. “Maybe you should keep watch outside and make sure no one enters the temple until I have retrieved Beau.”

Nott crossed her arms. “I don’t trust this man. Be careful, Caleb. If there’s any trouble, let me know by screaming really loud.”

Caleb half-smiled. “That is usually how one lets his companions know he’s in trouble, _ja_?” 

The cleric reached into the pocket of his ragged robes. “You say you only have fifty gold.” He extracted a familiar pouch and dangled it in front of Nott. He shook it, coins rattling loudly. “I counted. Your friend has over a thousand gold in here, and a hundred silver to boot.” He snarled, showing his teeth. “I don’t appreciate being lied to. And I’ll remind you that I can kill her just as easy as I can heal her.”

“Ahhh!” Nott charged the cleric, reaching for a hidden dagger. Caleb caught her by the back of her cloak and hoisted her into the air, stopping her mid-lunge. He set her down, keeping a firm hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Nott shook with adrenaline and rage. “I shouldn’t’ve have done that. I’m sorry, Caleb.”

The cleric bared his teeth, the muscles of his arms bulging as he reached for a knife of his own. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”

Caleb held up both hands, palms out. Nott, who had seen those hands burn with deadly flames, wondered if the cleric knew it was both a placation and a threat. “Take the gold,” Caleb said. “Let us retrieve our friend, and then we will be on our way. There is no need to make a bad situation worse.”

The cleric smiled a humorless smile. “Agreed,” he said, and reached up to shake Caleb’s hand. “She’s on the cot at the far back. Soon as she’s up, I want you out of here immediate. I find out you’re still hanging around where you shouldn’t be, and we’re gonna have trouble, understand?”

“I understand,” Caleb replied curtly. He reached for Nott’s hand, and she took it. Together, they made their way into the temple.

° ° °

Beau was half-awake and in a very bad mood. She lay curled on a cot in the same position they’d found her in, still clutching her wadded-up robes. Muddy water seeped out of the bundle as she sat up, pulling it tight against her body. “What the fuck?” she said in lieu of greeting. Bending at the waist, she cradled her head in her hands, digging her thumbs into her temples. “Aaaaugh. Why the _fuck_ does my head hurt so bad?”

“Probably because you just tried to take on a whole gang of cutthroats all by yourself,” said Caleb. “If we hadn’t found you when we did, Beauregard, you would have been in a very tight place.”

Nott fiddled with the frayed edge of her cloak. “We heard the fighting and came to check on you, but you were already unconscious and lying in a puddle of your own blood. There was so much blood, Beau! You should be dead! It was practically a lake. Or at least a little pond, or pool. A death pool, you might say.”

Beau shrugged, mumbling something unintelligible. Shaking her head, she finished massaging her temples and straightened up. “So what, you took me to the nearest witch doctor crank and told him to fix me up? Leeches and bloodletting? The back-alley cure for all ills?” She smiled her sarcastic smile, then grimaced and resumed rubbing her temples. 

Caleb and Nott exchanged a quick glance. “This witch doctor charged us a lot for his services,” Nott said. 

Beau frowned. “Huh? How much did he make you pay?”

Caleb sighed, passing a hand over his face. “A thousand gold and just over a hundred silver.”

Beau threw up her hands; the bundled cloak in her lap tumbled to the ground. “Oh, great!” She swore loudly, banging a fist on the cot. It creaked and shuddered. “Did you idiots consider that maybe I need that gold?”

“Not if you were dead!” Nott matched Beau glare for glare. “We saved your life! You should be thanking us.” 

“Oh, right, thanks a lot. Thanks for spending the money I was saving to resurr…” She trailed off, grimacing. “The money I was saving for future use.”

“I’m sorry it had to go this way, but it was the only way to avoid conflict.” Caleb’s voice was soft, hesitant. “We are not in any position to start fights with criminals, Beauregard, especially when they are also the best healer in town.”

“The _only_ healer in town,” said Nott. “Within our price range, that is.”

Beau buried her face in her hands. “Fuck,” she said, and yep, that just about summed it up.

A few silent seconds passed. Then, “It’s cold out,” Caleb said. He reached for Beau’s soaking coat. “We should return to the tavern and dry this out before—"

“No!” Beau stood up suddenly, cutting him off mid-sentence. She grabbed her cloak. The bundle unraveled in her unsteady hands, falling at her feet in a tangle of blue, brown, and vibrant red. 

Caleb stopped dead. Nott, with her darkvision and keen rogue’s eyes, immediately saw why: There, tangled up in Beau’s coat, was a familiar sleeveless long-coat covered in bright, multicolored symbols. “Caleb.” Nott reached for her friend’s sleeve. Caleb’s expression was blank, eyes dull as he stared down at the coat. Along with the bloodstains, Molly’s coat was drenched in filthy water. It looked like someone had quite literally dragged it through the mud.

Beau let out a long, loud groan. “Some fucking assholes took it off Molly’s grave. I couldn’t let them walk away with it.”

Caleb nodded. “I understand. I am not sure what I would have done in your shoes, but I would not have let them walk away with it, either.”

There was a heavy silence as they stared down at the bedraggled coat. “We should leave,” Nott said after a while. “That nasty halfling man basically said he’d kill us if we overstayed our welcome. We just spent way too much money on not dying; it would be financially irresponsible of us to throw it all away.”

Beau scooped up her coat and threw it on. She swore, wincing as the damp fabric stuck to her skin. She grabbed Molly coat and wadded it into a tight, soaking ball. She crossed her arms, pinning it against her side. “Yeah, Nott’s right. We don’t want to piss off our incredibly generous host.”

° ° °

They were a few blocks down the road when the snow began to fall in earnest. Snowflakes settled on Nott’s shoulders, accumulating in the folds of her cloak and hood. In the distance, lightning rolled, flashes of violent white piercing the clouds. She tucked her ears under her hood, shivering.

Beau groaned, rubbing her bare upper arms. “I hate being cold.”

“You could just cover all your bases and say you hate everything,” Nott suggested, and Beau glared at her.

“We need to get back to that tavern,” Caleb said. “Keg will be missing us, _ja_?”

Beau sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Besides, I could use a stiff drink or ten right now.”

Nott was about to agree with her when a pair of dark-clad, tough-looking human men stepped out of the alley to their right, followed by two half-orc women, a halfling man, and a tabaxi woman. They carried chipped, rusting weapons.

Nott drew her crossbow. Caleb fell into a defensive stance, raising his hands, fingers flickering with flame. Beau pulled her quarterstaff off her back, setting her shoulders and baring her teeth.

The man at the front of the pack held up his hands and bowed his head. He smiled, warm and genuine. “It’s alright, my friends. We’re here to make you an offer.” He cocked his head to one side. “Word travels fast in the underworld, and a little birdie told me the three of you have beef with the Iron Shepherds. Thing is, we’re not too fond of them ourselves. We don’t appreciate the competition, you see.” His crew nodded enthusiastically. “So here’s the deal: you scratch our backs, and we’ll scratch yours. You help us get into the Sour Nest, and we help you kill them. Deal?”

Nott glanced from Caleb to Beau, then back again. “Caleb? This feels like a bad idea to me. What do you think?”

“Deal.” Beau slung her staff over her back, holding out her hand to the leader of the pack. “I want those fuckers dead. I don’t really care how it happens.”

Caleb looked at Nott. She saw her own distrust and apprehension reflected in his eyes. “Well, I guess that’s that, then,” said Nott. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Beau followed the gang of mercenaries down the alley. “They’ve gotta have plenty of inside information,” she called back over her shoulder. “The longer we wait, the worse things get for Yasha, Jester, and Fjord. Are you guys in or out?”

Caleb sighed. “In.” He followed Beau. Nott, as always, stayed by his side, heart pounding and instincts screaming to turn tail and run. But if Caleb was going, she was going, too. He was her boy; it was as simple as that.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Molly woke up naked, strapped to a stone table in the middle of a crumbling temple. His ankles and wrists were bound, chest and legs secured with thick fiber ropes. As his vision cleared and his head stopped spinning, he became aware of a hooded figure leaning over him. In the faint light of burning sconces mounted on the temple's walls, the stranger’s face, tight with concern, came into sharp focus. 

The man laid a calloused hand on Molly's bare shoulder. "It's alright. You're safe now." He stepped out of sight. Molly inhaled sharply, body tensing. By his voice and posture, Molly recognized this stranger as the leader of the hooded men who had found him in the snow. There was a soft splash. The man stepped back into view, holding a pristine white cloth. He smiled serenely, kind eyes glimmering under the brim of his hood.

Molly wanted to ask where he was, who the man was, and why hooded strangers had kidnapped him from his gravesite in the middle of the night. His voice failed, throat too tight and sore for speech. He swallowed hard, wincing.

The hooded man squeezed the cloth over a shallow basin. Water ran down his wrists like crystal snakes. He leaned over Molly, pressing the wet cloth to Molly's exposed chest. Heat radiated from the damp fabric. Molly exhaled sharply as the warm water slid over his frozen skin. The man smiled again. Rivulets of water slid down Molly's sides, pooling in the hollow of his throat.

"I'm Kenith.” The man turned to wet the cloth again, red dripping off his fingers and onto the stony ground. The cloth, stained pink, slumped into the basin with a splash. "Your wounds have healed, but your mind has not. Fortunately, there's a cure for that. We can bring it all back.”

Molly opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He shook his head. _Fuck you,_ he thought. _That’s the last thing I want._

"You used to be part of something greater than yourself." Kenith sighed. He returned to Molly’s side, cleaning the blood from Molly's throat, his chin, his lips. Turning back to the basin, Kenith wrung out the cloth again. "It's a rough, violent world. But there are still people willing to risk their reputations and lives to bring about change. Those of us who dedicate our lives to this cause are everywhere, secret believers scattered across the Empire and beyond." He bowed his head, reaching up to remove his hood. "The organization I work for is called Torrent. We’re soldiers of justice and vengeance, the flood that washes sin from the face of the earth."

As he turned to face Molly again, his handsome face caught the dull light of low-burning torches. His bronze skin gleamed, sculpted jaw and chiseled cheeks defined by shadow and light. His eyes, bright blue and full of kindness and determination, shone as he smiled down at Molly. "We're the warriors paving the path to the future," he said. "And bringing about real change sometimes means burning the old world down." He paused, then reached out to touch Molly under the chin, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over Molly's lips. "The proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes. Kind of like you."

Molly turned his head away, hands clenched. As he flexed the fingers of his left hand, he realized he was still holding the crumpled letter. The damp paper folded in the curve of his palm, sweat and snowmelt softening its edges.

Kenith ran his fingers over the scars on Molly's chest, tracing the slender marks where Molly had drawn his own blood in battle. "You're the answer to all our problems," whispered Kenith. "There’s something you can do for us that no one else can. I know it's hard to believe, but you're exactly where you're meant to be."

Outside the temple, footsteps sounded. Kenith faded into the shadows between two sconces. "Lady Narayah.” His low voice echoed off the temple’s crumbling walls. "He's ready."

Molly raised his head as a tall, slender woman stepped into the room. Her robes were long and white, her auburn hair caught up in an elegant bun at the crown of her head. Her hands were clasped over her chest, fingers wrapped around a massive leather-bound tome. As she approached Molly, she smiled a radiant, piercing smile. Her green eyes flashed, reflecting fire. As she stepped out into the light, Molly noticed that the cover of the strange book was decorated with faintly glowing symbols. Although they were too far away to make out, a shock of familiarity pierced Molly's mind at the sight of them. Buried memories clawed at the barriers in his brain. White light flickered at the edges of his vision. He blinked, and the memories faded like summer snow.

The woman cradled the book in both hands. She flipped it open, long, nimble fingers rifling through dusty pages. After a few seconds, she turned her piercing gaze on Molly. As their eyes met, he was struck by a nameless fear. He drew a sharp, shaky breath, mouth dry and heart racing.

"Hello, Lucien," said the woman. Her bright smile flashed, a sear of blinding white in the guttering torchlight. "It's been far too long."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyway I owe my entire soul to everyone who has commented (both here on AO3 and on Tumblr) and/or left kudos on my writing like I love y'all for real. I am one (1) vain bitch and I love hearing people's thoughts and feelings and yeah I'm Big Emotional right now <3


	4. Part I Chapter IV: The Escape Artist

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**THE ESCAPE ARTIST**

“I’m tellin’ you, Jes, this isn’t gonna work.”

Jester, sitting on the bench at the back of a cell in the basement of the Sour Nest, pulled out the ink bottles that her mother had sent her. She frowned, tilting her head. “But maybe if it does work, then we can escape before anyone notices.”

Fjord passed a hand over his face. His head hurt, muscles sore from sitting in a cramped cage for three days straight. At least this cell was bigger, even if it smelled faintly of old ale and rotting meat. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t believe in your artistic talents. It’s just not a viable plan.” He held up his hands, showing off the bands of engraved silver fastened around his wrists. He clenched his fists, reaching for the dark magic in his chest, and the bands tightened painfully, symbols glowing green and gold. He winced, unclenching his hands. “They know we’re tryin’ to escape, Jes. And look where our first attempt got me.” He made a sharp, frustrated sound. “One thing I had goin’ for me was that they didn’t know about the falchion. And now the cat is outta the bag and that option is officially off the table.”

Jester put away all the bottles except for the red one. She uncorked it, dipping one finger in the thick, strong-smelling liquid. She stood up and danced over to Fjord, kneeling beside him. “That didn’t work because there were too many of them all in one place. I promise this will work, Fjord. I’ve done it before and, well, maybe it didn’t go too well the first time, but now I know how to do it, and I think it’ll be totally perfect. Okay?”

Fjord frowned. “They’re not gonna believe you’d attack me. You know that, right?”

Jester shrugged. “I learned a lot about acting from watching my mom. And I used to pretend to be all sorts of crazy, weird people when I was a kid.” She put on a high, shrill voice, clasping her hands in front of her chest and batting her lashes. “ _I’m Lady Myrah of Nicodranas, and I’m the most annoying person you’ve ever met. You should see all my fancy jewels and pedigrees that my rich father bought me. My parties are always the greatest, but you’re not invited, because you’re not as cool as me._ ”

Fjord smiled, shaking his head. “Alright,” he said. “Since we’ve got fuck-all in the way of other plans, I suppose we can try it your way.”

Jester grinned, bouncing up and down. “Yes! Okay, hold still while I do your makeup. I have to make it _reaaally_ convincing, or they’ll know we’re trying to trick them.”

 _They’ll know anyway,_ he almost said. But he couldn’t crush Jester’s hopes, so with a sigh, he resigned himself to insanity. He half-closed his eyes as she dabbed red ink on the corner of his mouth, dripping it down his jaw and smearing it over the pulse point on his throat. She stuck out the tip of her tongue, trapping it between her teeth as she worked. Fjord tilted his head back to give her better access; her nimble artist’s fingers danced over his skin as she worked with single-minded attentiveness.

When she finished, she stepped back, cocking her head and wiping off her hands as she admired her work. “Okay, all done. You look really bad now, like maybe you wrestled a rabid bear or something.” 

Fjord raised an eyebrow. “You ready to play the bear?”

At that moment, footsteps sounded on stone steps.. Fjord straightened up and moved to the front of the cage, turning his back to the slotted bars. “Oh, gods!” he shouted. “What the fuck, get offa me!”

With an enthusiastic shriek, Jester launched herself at him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and threw him onto the ground. Fjord struggled hard; even though it was all an act, Jester easily kept him pinned. She hissed something in Infernal, grabbing his throat in one hand and pretending to punch him with the other. Each blow was soft as a kitten’s paw, yet the insanity in Jester’s eyes and her demonic shrieks completely sold the act.

Two of Lorenzo’s men raced down the stairs, weapons drawn, eyes darting around the dimly lit space. They shouted and swore when they realized what was happening; charging forward, one of them fumbling for the keys in his pocket. “Check on the other one!” he yelled, pointing down the hall toward Yasha’s cell. “Make sure she’s not up or out.” 

“Oh, fuck!” The second guard ran down the hall in a panic. “Fuck, if she’s out…”

“Ahhhh!” Fjord shoved Jester’s shoulders, trying to push her off. She hunkered down, ducking through his arms and wrapping both hands around his throat. Her face was inches from his, eyes glowing as she panted and snarled. “Get this demon off me! Fuck, ouch!” The last exclamation wasn’t part of the act: at that moment, Jester bit his shoulder, fangs sinking deep.

The guard unlocked the cage. He pulled Jester off, still swearing viciously. Immediately she turned on him, shrieking in Infernal and elbowing him hard in the jaw. He stumbled back, stunned and blinking, and in an instant Jester was out of the cell and bolting for the stairs. “Come on!” she shouted to Fjord. “We have to go now!”

Fjord dodged the guard, slamming his shoulder into the man’s face as he passed. The hapless guard toppled backward, hitting his head on the straw-covered sleeping bench. He slumped to the floor, eyes sliding shut. Fjord turned away. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, heartbeat pounding in his ears, Fjord slammed the cell door and raced after Jester.

Jester stopped dead at the top of the stairs. Fjord nearly crashed into her. “Jester, what—?” he began, and then he saw it: Silhouetted against the flickering light of mounted torches was a familiar figure. “Lorenzo.” Instinctively, he reached for a blade that was no longer there. Gritting his teeth, he stepped up next to Jester and prepared for battle.

Lorenzo raised his glaive, aiming it at Jester’s throat. “You’re gonna walk back down those stairs,” he said calmly, “and get back in your cell, or I’ll kill you both right here and shove your corpses in myself.”

Jester reached for Fjord’s hand. He caught her fingers, squeezing hard before releasing.

“Okay,” said Jester in a false-cheerful voice. “I mean, it’s just that we were getting bored down there. You should put some games in your cells for your prisoners to play with; maybe then they won’t spend all their time trying to escape and things.”

Lorenzo pressed the glaive’s tip to Jester’s chest. He bent down, baring his gilded teeth. “ _Now_.”

“C’mon, Jester.” Fjord caught her sleeve, pulling her toward the stairs. Shaken and defeated, Fjord wrenched open the cell door and stepped inside. Lorenzo followed them down. When he saw the guard slumped, forehead bloody, groaning in pain, he let out a loud sigh. 

“Get up,” he commanded, “and give me the keys. You’re not fit for anything, it seems.”

The guard slunk out of the cell just as his companion came running back. “The half-god is still asleep!” he announced. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“No.” Lorenzo stuck the key into the lock with a violent thrust. Twisting slowly, he met Fjord’s gaze. “And neither are you.” With a last sweeping look at his prisoners, he strode away, gesturing for his companions to follow.

° ° °

Fjord leaned against the side of the cage. Jester slumped back onto the bench, cradling her face in her hands. “I’m sorry I bit you,” she said. “I thought it would be more convincing if you were actually bleeding.”

Fjord prodded the puncture marks on his shoulder, wincing. “I’m alright. You made a fan-fuckin’-tastic rabid bear.”

Jester smiled. “You know, as sad as it is that you got kidnapped, I’m glad I didn’t get kidnapped all by myself.”

Fjord smiled back. “Agreed.”

Fjord had just settled into a brooding silence when he heard footsteps on the stairs—heavy booted feet followed by the now-familiar laugh of Lorenzo. The infamous slaver approached Fjord and Jester’s cage, leaning on his glaive like a cane. “Well, well,” he said. “I just got interesting news from a contact of mine in Shady Creek Run. Turns out your little crew doesn’t know when to quit.”

Jester was by Fjord’s side in an instant. He put a hand on her shoulder. She was shaking, hands balled at her sides. “What do you mean?” She enunciated each word. “What news?”

Lorenzo smirked. “Your three remaining friends hired a team of mercenaries to take me and the Shepherds out. Only problem is those mercenaries belong to me. I bought them years ago.”

Fjord’s stomach dropped. Ice slid through his veins, panic tightening his chest. “You listen to me.” Fjord got as close to the front of the cage as possible. He wrapped his hands around the bars, knuckles paling as he gripped them tight. “If you lay one finger on any of them, I will personally put you in the ground. Do I make myself inescapably clear?”

Lorenzo bent forward, eyes burning between the bars. “Maybe I’ll sell you all together. Some people like their slaves to know each other. Makes for a better team.” Straightening up, he ran a finger over the glaive’s blade, looking thoughtful. “Or maybe I’ll split you up and sell you to the highest bidders. I know quite a few people who could use creatures that act—and look—like you.” His gaze flickered from Fjord to Jester. His smile turned dangerous. “Sleep well,” he told them as he walked away. He paused at the foot of the stairs, silhouetted against the distant torchlight filtering down from the room above. “At least you’ll be back together soon.” 

Jester slammed her palms against the bars as Lorenzo ascended the stairs, his dark, triumphant chuckle echoing off damp walls. “Don’t you fucking touch them, you giant dickface!” 

Fjord let out a string of curses, shaking the bars. The metal groaned and bent in his hands. With a last snarl of rage, he turned away. He reached for Jester’s arm, catching her by the wrist to stop her from bruising her knuckles on the bars. “It’s not over,” he reminded her. “We’ve gotta get out before the others get here.” He let go of Jester’s wrist, turning toward the cell at the far end of the hall. “And to do that, we’re gonna need Yasha.”

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Everything was white. The walls, the cracked ceiling, the woman leaning over him. Molly blinked and the world came into focus. The woman smiled. Her lips were red, blood-red, her eyes full of silver light. “Good morning, Lucien.” Her soft voice was laced with bad intentions, poisoned milk in a silver cup.

Molly struggled to sit up. He managed it—the ropes on his ankles and torso had been cut away—but his hands were chained behind his back. The manacles dug into his skin, hands numb and wrists throbbing. “Now, usually I’m not opposed to waking up in handcuffs with a beautiful woman standing over me—” His voice broke like frozen glass. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I have the feeling this is a different scenario than the one I’m thinking of.”

The woman tilted her head. She half-smiled. “I’m Narayah,” she said. “I come from the city of Rexxendrum. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Molly blinked. He felt light, woozy. He had no idea how he’d gotten here from the crumbling temple. Looking around, he found that he was sitting on an elegant white marble alter. Veins of gold snaked through the smooth stone. He traced them with his eyes, grounding himself. “Narayah,” he repeated. “Narayah from Rexxentrum.”

Narayah nodded. “We’ve met before,” they said in unison. Narayah cocked her head. “Yes. But you don’t remember, do you?”

Molly grinned, flashing his fangs. “I don’t know anything. Well, I don’t know most things.”

“So who told you?”

“Would you believe I used my unusually sharp wits to figure it out on my own?”

“No.” 

“That’s fair.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Narayah straightened up. Turning away, she reached under her cloak. Something flashed in her hand, bright and clear as crystal. “I’m sorry I have to do this,” she said. “I fucked up the first time. That’s on me.” She spun around, her long white cloak sweeping around her. “But it has to be done.”

“I hate to repeat myself,” Molly said, sitting up as straight as possible given his less-than-mobile situation, “but I need to make it abundantly clear that I have no _fucking_ idea what’s going on.”

Narayah spread her hand on his chest, painted nails digging into his skin. “It won’t matter in a moment. I’ll do it right this time. I won’t let you get lost again.”

Molly yelped as Narayah shoved him back onto the alter. Her fingers were shockingly cold. The spellcaster drew a dagger from under her cloak. The blade looked like it had been carved from ice: slender, opaque, glinting down its length as the torchlight caught on its jagged edge. Narayah drew the blade down Molly’s neck, opening a thin red line from his jaw to his clavicle. Blood welled, hot and sticky. A thin silver mist rose from the wound, dissipating against a stark-white backdrop. Molly gasped as bone-deep pain shot through his chest, forcing the air from his lungs.

Narayah produced a tiny silver goblet studded with moonstones. She drew the lip over the cut, filling the cup with viscous red. She set it on the edge of the alter. “Don’t be afraid.” She stroked his cheek, cold fingers on feverish skin. “We are all just moments, memories passing like ghosts.” She turned away, eyes flashing silver. She raised the bloodied blade, holding it up like an offering to an unseen god. “And finally, the end, when all our futures fade.”

She swept across the room to stand before a short stand carved of white marble. On the stand sat the ancient leather-bound tome. It lay open, aging pages covered in faint red and black symbols. Narayah threw back her head, muttering under her breath. Molly shielded his eyes as she began to glow, piercing white light spreading up her arms and emanating from her upturned face. 

The light swallowed her. Molly tried to get up, to run, but he couldn’t. Creeping magic slid through his blood, holding him immobile. He fell onto the alter, back arched, jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would shatter. 

Through the light, a shape emerged, wreathed in white. She leaned over him, burning hands on his throat. Her lips brushed his ear. _We are all just moments,_ she whispered, _memories passing like ghosts._

The white fires rose. There was a sound like glass breaking, a sear of violent heat, and then the light was inside him. It poured in through his mouth and eyes, filling his chest as he inhaled. Fire in his veins, licking his skin. A violent, cruel lover caressing his body with burning fingers. 

The woman’s hair fell around his face, her eyes pupil-less and white. Her lips didn’t move, but her voice was inside him, piercing his mind. _And finally, the end, when all our futures fade._

The world exploded in a blaze of violent light.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“What the fuck. Are they here, or what?” Beau led the way down a rickety wooden staircase, crouched low with one hand wrapped around her staff and the other curled into a fist. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding in her throat. Caleb followed close behind while Nott slipped ahead to check for hidden doors and traps. The mercenaries fanned out, a few disappearing down empty hallways while the rest flanked Beau and Caleb. 

“It doesn’t look like they’re home,” Caleb agreed in an undertone. “We should head back up and regroup with Keg, I think. It would be better to set an ambush than to try and meet them in open battle when they have the home advantage.”

Beau shook her head. “No,” she whisper-hissed. “I’m not letting them slip through our fingers again. No fuckin’ way.”

“They didn’t slip through our fingers before.” Caleb fell back a few paces, dropping out of Beau’s peripheral sight. “They murdered one of ours; the rest are not much better off.”

“Wait, hold on. Shut up.” Beau paused, holding up a hand for the others to stop. “I heard something down there.” She jerked her chin at the shadow-cloaked hallway at the bottom of the stairs. A distant yellow glow flickered on dank, grimy stone walls. The light grew brighter, creeping up the stairs. Beau crouched low, letting out a soft hiss of warning. She held her breath, hoping no one could hear how hard her heart was beating. “Shit! Someone’s coming. Back, back, go back!”

Caleb didn’t reply. She turned to face him. A shock of adrenaline numbed her fingers and tightened her chest; she inhaled, but her throat closed and her breath stuck in her lungs.

“Drop the stick, bitch.” The leader of the mercenaries grasped the collar of Caleb’s coat, the point of his rusted blade pressed to Caleb’s neck. A thin red trickle slid down the curve of Caleb’s throat. The mercenary grinned, roguishly handsome face lit by the distant flicker of faint torchlight. “Game’s up, fuckers. Time to meet my boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I hate editing it takes SO MUCH TIME why do I always forget this!!! But I love y'all and I hope you're enjoying this so far!! :D


	5. Part I Chapter V: The Traveler and the Rogue

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**THE TRAVELER AND THE ROGUE**

“What the _fuck_ , you guys?” Jester gripped the bars as Beau and Caleb were dragged into the basement, their hands cuffed in front of them. 

Beau groaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” She turned to glare at the slaver shoving her forward. “Touch me one more time and I’m gonna break your ribs, asshole.”

The slaver laughed. “I would strongly advise against that.” Jester thought he’d elaborate, but apparently that was threat enough.

The two slavers threw their prisoners into an empty cell. They slammed and locked the doors. One headed down the hall to check on Yasha; the other stayed put. “The boss’ll be down in a minute.” The man crossed his arms, shifting from foot to foot. “He’s got a proposition for you.” His smile turned dangerous. Beau cursed him out, and he banged a fist on the bars of her cage. “Stay civil,” he said, “unless you want a repeat of your first encounter with us.”

Beau shouted increasingly inventive obscenities after him as he and his friend ascended the stairs. “She’s still out cold,” Jester heard the second man say to the first. “Whatever spell they put on those cuffs, it’s powerful shit.”

Jester pressed her face to the bars. The metal burned, rough and cold against her forehead. “You guyyyss, now we don’t have any way to get out! Unless this is all part of your secret plan?”

Caleb, leaning against one side of his cell with a drawn, defeated look on his face, shook his head. “Unless there is a plan that I am not aware of, this is just a major fuck up. That’s all there is to it.”

Beau punched one of the bars. Cradling her hand under her armpit, she shrugged. “I mean, I guess we did have a plan, but then we got fucked over by those shady assholes.” She paused, then punched the bars with her other hand. “Ow, fuck.”

“Maybe you should stop hitting things,” Jester said. “It’s probably not good for your hands.”

“Gee, y’think?”

Jester frowned, indignant. “I’m just trying to help, _Beau._ ”

Fjord, who’d been silently pacing ever since Beau and Caleb arrived, joined Jester at the front of the cell. “Hey Caleb, where’s Nott?”

Caleb’s expression darkened. “I don’t know. She went ahead to check for traps; she wasn’t with us when the mercenaries showed their true colors.” He hesitated, gaze fixed on the ground. “I lost track of her, and then…” He shook his head, strands of auburn hair falling into his eyes. “I don’t know. She disappeared.”

“Maybe,” Beau began, rubbing her knuckles and wincing, “the mercenaries didn’t even notice she was with us. I mean, she was scouting ahead the whole time. She didn’t want to come with us in the first place; maybe they think she dipped at the last second.”

“Maybe!” Jester went up on her toes, gripping the bars tighter as excitement bubbled in her chest. “So you didn’t have a plan, but maybe there’s a plan anyway, even though none of us came up with it.”

Fjord half-opened his mouth then closed it, shaking his head. There was a long silence. And then, “Well, if Nott got away, we’ve gotta trust that she’ll get us out. Is Keg still on our side?”

Caleb nodded. “She hung back to watch the entrance, in case more slavers turned up. If Nott is still free, she will likely go to Keg.”

“And if she’s not?” Beau asked the question Jester didn’t want to. “If she got captured, or…?” Caleb flinched at the silent implication.

“She wouldn’t get _captured,_ ” Jester tried and failed to hide the tremor in her voice. “I mean, Nott’s really smart, you guys, and she’s reeaaally sneaky. They won’t find her, Caleb, I just know it.”

“How?” Caleb lifted his head. His gaze was hazy, distant. They were ten feet apart, but Jester felt like thousands of miles stretched between them. “How can you possibly know that?”

Jester reached for her art supply pouch. She traced the outline of her journal, full of sketches and letters to the Traveler. “Because I know the Traveler, and he won’t just leave us here. Besides, the Traveler likes Nott so much, and he won’t let anything bad happen to her.” She pulled out her journal. Propping it open against the bars, she extracted a pen and dipped it in black ink. “ _Dear Traveler,_ ” she dictated. “ _My friends and I are trapped in this really stinky cell with a bunch of stupid annoying evil people, and we need you to help break us out. Also, keep Nott safe, because even though she’s super sneaky, it never hurts to be sneakier. Love you always, your friend, Jester._ ”

Jester put away her journal just as bootsteps sounded on the stairs. Lorenzo strode into the hallway, stopping between the two cells. As always, his fearsome weapon was in his hand. When he saw Beau and Caleb, he smirked. “How is it to have the whole gang back together?” He turned from Fjord to Jester, before returning his attention to Caleb and Beau. He leaned closer to their cage, his eyes fixed on Beau. “My apologies. I see you’re missing a couple members.” He straightened up as Beau lunged at him, punching the bars inches from his face. “Unfortunately, I can only claim credit for one of those absences.” Lorenzo’s eyes flickered to Caleb, who was staring blankly at the floor. “Where’s the goblin? Did she leave once the battle turned bad? I wouldn’t blame her.” His shark’s smile returned, gold glinting in faint, distant torchlight. “I wouldn’t trust any of you after that.”

“What the fuck do you want, you sick son of a bitch?” Fjord growled at Lorenzo. Jester read his rage in the tight set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. Outwardly he seemed cool, collected. Inside, Jester knew he was burning as hot and furious as the rest of them.

Lorenzo turned to Fjord. They stared at each other for a moment, Fjord glaring, Lorenzo smirking. Then Lorenzo said, “Your friends attacked me. Twice now. I executed one last time, but it seems to have had no effect on those I let live.” He rounded on Beau and Caleb, baring his teeth. “I told you if you crossed me again, I’d send you down to see your dead friend. I plan to make good on that promise.”

Jester’s palms sweated, legs weak as she clung to the bars. “We aren’t trying to hurt you anymore; you already caught us,” she said loudly. “We’re not attacking you; it wouldn’t be fair to just _kill_ us. Especially since we won’t be worth anything to you if we’re dead, and we’re pretty good at a lot of things, so really you’d just be hurting yourself.”

Lorenzo chuckled. “Hmm. You make a good point, little devil girl.” He leaned in close. She smelled blood on his breath. “Unfortunately, rules are rules. I have a code. Honor among thieves.” He straightened up, sobering. “You have five hours to decide which one of you dies. I’ll be down at dawn to hear your decision. Once you’ve chosen—” his eyes flickered from one to the other, cold and cruel, “—the choice will be final.”

Beau slammed both hands on the bars, snarling like a wild animal. “ _Fuck_ you, Lorenzo!” she spat.

“You’ve said that.” Lorenzo bared his golden teeth. “But really, I’m the one fucking you.”

Lorenzo disappeared up the stairs, footsteps echoing in the dim, narrow passage. A wooden door slammed shut, a heavy bolt sliding into place. The faint torchlight disappeared. What remained of the Mighty Nein were enveloped in darkness, their harsh, ragged breathing the only sound.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Nott was fucking terrified. This wasn’t her first time in a hive of scum and villainy—not by a long shot—but it was the first time someone else’s life had depended on her going unnoticed. Not just _someone’s_ life, but the lives of her friends, the people she’d come to trust, even love. Sure, they were a bunch of obnoxious, stupid, shifty assholes, but they were _her_ obnoxious, stupid, shifty assholes. She’d be damned if she didn’t at least try to save them. 

_At least I have Keg,_ she thought. Keg, who was self-admittedly not stealthy, had hung back to scout out the Shepherds’ defenses. Before they charged into battle or attempted to escape, they needed to know exactly what they were dealing with. Keg was clearly the best woman for the job. Nott, on the other hand, was best suited for stealth. As much as she hated it, it was up to her to break the Mighty Nein out. The plan was simple: find the prison without becoming a prisoner.

Distant footsteps stopped Nott dead. Hunkering down, she ran her hands nervously over her hood, tugging it down over her face. She took off the doll mask and stashed it under her cloak. The porcelain was bright in the torchlight, a dead giveaway if someone were to come down the hall. 

_Focus,_ she told herself. _Don’t think about it too much. Just keep moving._

She crept deeper into the lair, past a conspicuous patch of torchlight and down a flight of stone steps. She paused, listening intently. The distant sound of raised voices seeped through the ceiling. Revelry, glasses clinking, victorious laughter ringing like festival bells. Pulling out her flask, Nott took a few deep swigs. Her throat burned, tongue momentarily numb. Swallowing, she crept down the next flight of steps and into the unknown.

° ° °

The door to the dungeon was a massive block of unpolished hardwood reinforced with a bar-lock and a key lock. Nott, who’d barely made it past a pair of slavers loitering at the end of the hall (somehow they’d been distracted just as she approached, moving off in search of a weird noise farther down the passage), slid along the wall, crouching in front of the door. Not that crouching did her any good—she was in plain sight, her dark cloak contrasting starkly with the light wood.

She pulled out her thieves’ tools. Her hands shook, vision slightly blurry. She reached for her flask and took another, deeper draught. Wiping her mouth, she set to work.

Her first pick broke instantly. It stayed stuck in the lock, wedged in deep. “Stop it!” she whispered, struggling to pull it loose. “This isn’t good, oh no, fuck! Shit!”

With a loud _click_ , the broken pick came free. Nott tossed it aside and reached for another. This one she managed to wedge in. Barely, and she couldn’t be sure if the mechanism would respond to her careful prodding. At least she was relatively sure it wasn’t trapped. If it was, she’d already be dead.

Footsteps, loud and flat-footed on the stone floor, sounded in the hallway she’d just come down. With an aborted yelp, she flattened herself to the wall, searching for a hiding place. There was nothing but open space and a too-low ceiling. No escape, no way out. Just as Nott reached for her crossbow, bracing for battle, she happened to notice the arch over the door. The trim curved down, leaving a tiny, crescent-moon space directly over the doorway. 

“This is a _terrible_ idea,” she whispered. The footsteps grew louder, and she heard a familiar low, much-hated voice say, “Take this down to them. I don’t want them dying of thirst before I can sell ‘em off. Damaged goods aren’t worth the price of keeping them alive.”

“I’m on it.” This voice was higher, softer. “I’ll let you know how they’re doing.”

“Good,” said Lorenzo. “I’m gonna go talk to those mercenaries about their reward. You know how they get when they think they won’t be paid.”

“You do that. I’ll be back in a few.” The footsteps started up again. One set—the heavy, familiar one—headed away. The lighter steps continued toward the prison.

Nott didn’t have time to think. The only options were bad ones, and she was officially out of time.

Success was unlikely. 

Failure wasn’t an option.

 _Let’s fucking do this,_ said the liquor. _At this point, what do we have to lose?_

Just as a tall, lanky half-elven man slunk into the room, Nott scrambled up the archway and crammed herself into the space above the door. Her hood fell over her face, shadows clinging to her body like a wet blanket. She braced herself, arms shaking, the liquor in her blood weakening her limbs and fogging her brain. She held on tight, palms and feet jammed into tight, slippery corners, back arched up into the curving doorway. If she fell, it would be an eight-foot drop directly onto solid stone. At that point, she’d be fucked no matter what.

The half-elven slaver pulled out a rung of keys. He sorted through them, muttering to himself, until he found a large bronze one. Inserting the key into the doorknob, he pushed the bar-lock back into its slot in the wall. The door creaked open. He disappeared into the gloomy stairwell beyond.

At that moment, Nott’s foot slipped. She fell ungracefully to the ground. Somehow, she landed on her feet, a shriek building in her chest. She swallowed the sound. Shaking, she pressed her back to the wall. She held her breath, one hand on her crossbow, the other on her flask.

The half-elf didn’t seem to have noticed. It had been a surprisingly silent fall; in fact, Nott thought as she slipped through the door and crouched at the top of the stairs, things were going suspiciously well. Given the circumstance and her less-than-sober state, she should’ve been caught by now. Or killed. Maybe some combination of the two. And yet, here she was: terrified out of her mind, but still in one piece.

Whatever the reason, she wasn’t about to question it. With one hand on the slimy stone wall, she tiptoed down the first five steps and paused, listening. The half-elf was saying something in a soft, smug tone. Nott couldn’t make out the words, but she had a feeling it was for the best. The last thing she needed was to go on a rage-fueled rampage. 

She crept down the last five steps. Now that she was closer, the conversation was fully audible. 

“I’m gonna shove this fucking bread up your ass if you don’t stop looking at me like that.” Beau, voice low and furious. “Are you one of those guys who can never take a fucking hint? Like, you say you’re okay with being friends, but then you’re totally not, so you’re stuck being a fucking creep for the rest of your shitty life?”

The half-elf chuckled. “Darling, you can do whatever you like with that bread. I was told to give it to you, and that was the extent of my instructions.”

“It’s actually really good bread, actually.” Jester’s usually chipper tone was edged with exhaustion. “Especially if you fold it over like this and put the cheese inside, then dip it in the hot sauce…” 

Fjord cleared his throat. “That’s not hot sauce, Jes.”

“Then what is it? Is it _poison?_ ” Nott imagined Jester turning on the guard, eyes wide and indignant. “Are you trying to _poison_ us?”

“No, Jester. That’s paint. You’ve still got some on your sleeve, and it’s draggin’ across your plate.”

There was a moment of silence, and then: “It doesn’t really taste that bad, really. Do you want to try it, Fjord?”

“Uh, no thanks. I’m good.”

“Hold up, is she eating paint?” The half-elf sounded caught between amusement and incredulity. “That’s a new one.”

Nott crept forward, peering around the corner. The rest of the Mighty Nein were split between two cells. Beau and Caleb were in the one on the right, with Fjord and Jester directly across the hall from them. Nott peered into the darkness beyond, then turned down the hallway to her left. Five cells down from Fjord and Jester was Yasha. She appeared unconscious, sprawled in the straw covering the bottom of her cage. Her hands, unlike the others’, were cuffed behind her back.

“Before I go,” said the half-elf, “I just want to let you know what the boss is planning to do with you.”

“Fuck you,” said Beau and Fjord.

“Maybe,” the elf replied. “It’s possible he’ll sell you to sex traders, or to work camps. Or as fighters for the entertainment of rich criminals. I know a lot of people who love to watch their slaves fight each other.”

“That’s it,” said Beau. “I’m gonna stab you to death with your own ribs. Just you fuckin’ wait.”

The half-elf laughed. “No, you won’t. You’re never getting out of here alive. Not with that attitude. The boss will either kill you or break you. You’ll never get the chance to see me dead.”

“You’re wrong!” said Nott, leaping out from her hiding place with a dagger in each hand. As the guard turned, she attacked. The first dagger flew ten feet and sank into the dip at the base of her target’s throat. The other missed, clattering off the bars of Fjord and Jester’s cage. But one was all she needed: The half-elf grasped his throat, choking, blood pouring from his lips. His eyes rolled back and he fell to his knees, shaking and seizing. His longsword slipped out of his belt. The blade glittered in the torchlight, clattering to the ground. It took him half a minute to go still; by that time, Nott had already pulled out her thieves’ tools, fumbling with the drawstrings and latches.

“Nott!” Jester said loudly. Fjord shushed her, and she lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Nott!”

“Caleb!” said Nott, scrambling toward Caleb and Beau’s cell. She gripped the bars as the world spun, her knees weak and her vision blurry. Caleb fell to his knees in front of her. He reached through the bars, and she hugged him back as best she could. “Caleb, you’re okay! I was so worried about you.”

Caleb exhaled sharply. “I’m alright, Nott. Are you?

“A bit tipsy, but that’s kind of par for the course at this point.”

“ _Gut_. I’m so proud of you.”

Jester grinned at Nott. “You were so sneaky _we_ didn’t even know you were coming to save us.” She put a hand on the pouch where she kept her journal, bouncing excitedly. “I asked the Traveler to protect you, and he did. I _knew_ it!”

Nott blinked. All those times she’d almost been caught, saved at the last second by a strange noise or a convenient distraction. The way she’d effortlessly climbed a ledge-less doorframe and melded with the shadows. “Tell him I say thank you,” she told Jester. Then, just to be safe, she added, “Thank you, Traveler, for making sure I didn’t get murdered by slavers.” Her voice echoed through the basement, high and quavering. “Do you think he heard me?”

Jester nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, I think he totally heard you, Nott. I’m pretty sure he likes you _sooooo_ so much.”

Fjord cleared his throat. “Listen up, Nott, Jester. Let’s leave this for later. We’ve gotta get outta here before Lorenzo comes back and notices we’ve escaped.”

Beau threw up her hands. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but we _haven’t_ escaped.”

“Just a second. I’ll bust you out in no time.” Nott dug through her tools. She pulled out her last four picks. “Hold on and I’ll just…” She squinted at the lock on Caleb and Beau’s door, sliding in the first pick. She twisted. There was a click; she pulled on the cell door, but it didn’t budge. She tugged on the pick. It was stuck. “Shit!” Her heart pounded, fingers trembling. “Not again!” 

“Hold on, let me just—” Beau reached through the bars and pulled on the pick. With a _snap_ , it broke off in her hand. She grimaced, dropping it. “Ahhhhhh, sorry.”

Nott stared at her. “Thanks, Beau,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” She paused, reconsidering. “Actually, that’s not true. I did the exact same thing on the other door earlier.”

Jester bounced anxiously on the balls of her feet. “It’s alright, Nott. You have three more picks, right?”

Before Nott could reply, Caleb and Fjord sighed in unison. “Just get the fuckin’ keys off the guard,” Fjord said, just as Caleb said, “You know there are keys on that man’s belt, right?”

Nott crawled over the guard and cut the keys off his belt. “I knew that!” 

On the floor above, the steady tread of booted feet. “Someone’s coming!” Jester whisper-hissed. “Hurry up, Nott! I believe in you!”

 _Well, that makes one of us._ Nott rifled through the keys, fingers shaking and vision fading in and out of focus. She tried the first three keys, the metal spokes slipping around the keyhole. She was a fourth of the way through the rung when Caleb held out a hand, palm up, through the bars. Nott dropped the keys into his palm. She crouched by the door as Caleb tried the keys one after the other until one stuck. With a soft _click_ , the door swung open.

“Well done,” said Fjord. He and Jester stood at the front of their cell, Jester gripping the bars and Fjord leaning on them. 

“Now do us!” Jester said as Caleb stepped out of his cell. 

Overhead, the footsteps paused. There was the faint sound of raised voices. Then the footsteps started up again, this time heading in opposite directions.

“Shit!” Nott hissed. “They’ve probably noticed this guy—” she kicked the dead half-elf, “—is taking too long to come back up.”

Caleb made quick work of the second cell. “Yasha,” he muttered. He turned down the hall, but before he could get any farther, Beau snatched the keys and dashed away. Her robes billowed behind her, booted feet moving almost inhumanly fast over the slick stone. Nott noticed that Beau no longer carried Molly’s coat; with a pang, she wondered which of the Iron Shepherds had taken it. Probably Lorenzo, she thought bitterly. A memento of his victory against the Nein.

Nott hung back as the others followed Beau. She glanced nervously up the darkened stairway while Jester rubbed the marks the cuffs had left on her wrists, making a face. Thin, watery torchlight slanted through cracks in the door. At any moment, someone could come through that door. _Lorenzo_ could come through that door.

Apparently, Yasha was still unconscious. Nott heard Beau swearing as she noted this aloud, threatening some very specific and creatively violent things if she ever found out who was responsible. 

“Wait, look, she’s waking up.” Beau’s voice was thick with relief. 

“ _Ja_. The enchantment was on the cuffs. She should be okay now.”

“Yasha, can you heaaar me?” Jester sang. “What’s your name? What year is it? Do you know who we are?”

Yasha’s soft, faintly-accented voice replied. Nott was too far away to hear what she said, but the grief, raw and fresh in her voice, told Nott everything she needed to know.

“Wait, Yasha, hold on!” Fjord’s voice rang out in the narrow hall. “It won’t do Molly any good if you get yourself killed. We’ve gotta do this right. We can’t just charge up there ‘n’ rip Lorenzo’s head off, as appealing as that may be.”

“I have to be the one.” Nott peered down the hall toward the cluster around Yasha’s cell. Yasha was on her feet, Beau supporting her with both arms. “When the time comes, I have to kill him.”

“I’ll hold him down,” Beau said, “and you can rip his fucking throat out.”

“Alright.” Yasha’s voice was rough, cracked. “What’s the plan?”

“No idea,” said Fjord. “Nott had a plan to get us out, but I don’t know how far into the future that plan was meant to go.”

“Not much farther than this,” Nott admitted. “I was flying entirely by the seat of my pants. Or robes.” She picked at the hem of her cloak. “Whatever this thing is.” 

Fjord sighed. “Guess we’re wingin’ it,” he said. 

° ° °

The party moved back toward the stairway. Nott motioned for them to be quiet, pointing to the half-opened door. “There’s someone walking around up there. I don’t hear them anymore, which is probably a good sign, but for all we know they’re standing up there waiting for us.”

“We should see if they go away,” said Jester. “If someone comes down here, Yasha can just knock them out and we can put them in a cell or something.”

“Hey, Jester,” Beau said. “Can I borrow your red ink for a sec?”

“Yes, Beau, of course you can.” Jester extracted the red bottle and held it out. Beau took it, smirking. Jester tilted her head, eyes shining with curiosity. “What are you going to do with it?”

Nott was wondering the same thing. The whole party watched Beau open the bottle, dip her finger in ink, then cross to the dead guard. She pulled him up by the back of his cloak, dragging him into Fjord and Jester’s cell. She propped his corpse against the bench with his legs in front of him and his head lolling back. She crouched in front of the body, blocking it from view.

After a few moments, she stood up, wiping red paint on her pants. “There.” She stepped back, admiring her handywork. Nott peered around her legs, blinking in the dim light. 

There, written in dripping red on the dead half-elf’s chest, was a message:

_Hey Lorenzo,_

_Thanks for the sword, motherfucker._

Beau slammed the cell door behind her. She picked up the longsword, pressing it into Yasha’s hands with a meaningful look. “Let’s go fuck shit up,” she said, and started up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made an important discovery today: I hate group projects more than I hate editing. So here's chapter five! 
> 
> Also, more importantly, I want to say Thank You So Fucking Much to everyone who's given me feedback so far!! I LOVE Y'ALL!!! <3


	6. Part I Chapter VI: The Angel of Vengeance

****

**CHAPTER SIX**

****

**THE ANGEL OF VENGEANCE**

Yasha hurt all over, anger like poison in her blood. Her wrists were chaffed and her muscles sore from being unconscious for days, but the pain paled in comparison to the grief burning in her heart. It felt like the world had fallen away, her wings too ripped and broken to fly. It took everything she had not to go on a rampage the moment she was out of her cell. It was agony knowing that Molly’s killer was here in this building when she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

_Yet._

There would be a time for vengeance, she told herself. And when it came, her wrath would bloom like blood from a gaping wound, drowning all who stood in her way.

° ° °

The Mighty Nein broke out of their cuffs, snuck past a couple of less-than-aware criminals playing cards, waited for Yasha to dispatch a few thugs, and made it up the stairs to the second level. Yasha clenched the hilt of the bloodstained longsword tight in one hand, the other balled into a fist. _Patience,_ she told herself. _Wait. Just wait._

“Through that door.” Nott pointed to a slotted wooden door to the left. The narrow hallway was full of dancing shadows. Beyond, a raucous celebration was taking place. Mugs clanked together, voices raised in loud laughter and mingled conversations. “That’s where the mercenaries are. Lorenzo said he was going to check on them, but he must’ve already done that.”

Caleb frowned. “How do we know he’s not still in there?”

Yasha stayed close to the wall. Her pale skin and large form weren’t hard to miss; if anyone came through the door, they would see her immediately. Holding her sword up, she fell into a fighting stance. She missed the heavy, familiar weight of her greatsword, but for now, this would have to do.

“We don’t.” Nott’s voice wavered. “Caleb, can you send Frumpkin—?” she started to say, then covered her mouth, eyes widening. “Oh no. I forgot. I’m sorry, Caleb, I forgot.”

Caleb waved it off. “It’s alright, Nott. When I summoned him earlier, I expected it not to go well. Once this is over, I can get him back.” Despite his reassuring words, Yasha noticed the strain in his voice and the darkness in his gaze. Caleb looked up and saw her watching him. He looked away, blinking rapidly. 

“Listen up,” said Beau, adjusting her arm wrappings and clenching and unclenching her fists. “How about we do this the old fashion way? We go in there, intimidate the fuck outta them, then demand they help us take out the Shepherds.”

“Or we could promise them more money than whatever Lorenzo is paying them,” Jester suggested in a cheerful whisper. “Fjord, you’re _suuuuper_ charming; I bet you could get them to do whatever you want. Just tell them that they can have all of the slavers’ money and supplies and stuff, and they’ll definitely help us, I think.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Jester,” said Fjord. “Beau, I’m pissed off too—trust me, I understand where you’re comin’ from—but if those mercenaries stand by Lorenzo and his goons, we don’t stand a fuckin’ chance. I have to agree with Jester on this: Diplomacy is our best option.”

Beau huffed. “Fine. Just give me a few seconds first.”

“Why?” Caleb asked, frowning.

“I’ve gotta write you fuckers out of my will.”

“You have a _will_?” Jester said with a little more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. “But you don’t have too many things. Ohhhh, except you do have a really pretty coat! And your night goggles, and your boots you got from that assassin guy in Zadash… okay, so you actually have some pretty cool things, Beau.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Fjord said, “but can y’all please focus on the plan for one goddamn minute?”

Jester made a face. “Oops, sorry, Fjord. I’m listening now.”

Yasha, who had stayed watchful and quiet throughout the conversation, seeing and hearing more than anyone else, sighed and pointed to the now-cracked door. “Nott’s already in there,” she said. “She snuck in about thirty seconds ago while you were all fucking arguing.”

Caleb’s expression went from nervous to panicked in point-one seconds. “She _what?_ ” He looked around frantically, eyes wild, hands shaking. He took a step toward the door. The floorboards creaked, the narrow walls condensing the sound and hurling it back at twice its original amplitude. 

Beau caught him by the shoulder and shook him. “Hey! You need to chill the fuck out before you get us all killed.”

Caleb looked stunned, expression dull and distant. “But what about Nott?”

Yasha took a careful step forward, wary of the creaky boards. She put a careful hand on Caleb’s shoulder, covering Beau’s. Beau looked up, lips parted and eyes wide, but Yasha focused on Caleb. In the softest, gentlest whisper she could muster, she said, “If anything goes wrong, we’ll know. If we hear anything unusual, I’ll be through that door before anyone can hurt her.” _I’m not losing anyone else_. Her throat closed up. _I can’t let that happen ever again._

Caleb didn’t look convinced. His chest rose and fell rapidly, face pale and shoulders tense under his sagging coat. “Okay,” he said faintly. “But if she is not back in five minutes—and I _will_ know when it’s been five minutes—I am going in there. She could already be in trouble; we don’t have any idea what she’s trying to do.”

“Agreed,” said Fjord. “Five minutes. We can give her that.”

A tense, breathless silence fell. The seconds ticked by. The laughter beyond the door continued, loud and raucous as feasting crows.

“It’s been five minutes,” said Caleb. 

“That was five minutes? Felt like five years.” Beau adjusted her wrappings again, rubbing her knuckles and grimacing. Yasha noticed bruises blooming on the backs of her hands, dark blue and yellow patches spreading down her fingers from her knuckles. Yasha wondered how the injuries had happened; it wasn’t like Beau to come away from a fistfight with bruised knuckles.

“We have to—" Caleb began, but at that moment, the door opened a foot and Nott slipped silently into the hall. She carefully closed the door behind her. “ _Nott!”_ Caleb made a move toward her; Beau grabbed the back of his coat and held him in place.

“The floorboards!” Beau hissed. 

Nott tiptoed up to Caleb, who knelt down with a mixture of fear and relief in his eyes. He took Nott by the shoulders, holding her tight. “Nott, what were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed.”

Nott looked guilty. She put a hand on Caleb’s arm. “I’m sorry, Caleb. I should’ve told you what I was doing, but I didn’t want to start a new argument when the first one was going so well.”

Beau snorted loudly. Yasha shot her a warning glance. Beau grimaced, looking vaguely apologetic.

Fjord frowned, watching Nott and Caleb with his arms crossed over his chest. “Nott, what _were_ you doin’ in there?”

Nott blinked. Her eyes glowed in the dimness. “I set up a bomb,” she said. 

“You _what?_ ” Caleb’s expression shifted from relief to fear. “What do you mean? How did you make a bomb?”

“Well. It’s only a bomb if _you_ make it a bomb.” Nott fiddled nervously with the hem of her cloak. “It’s a bottle of acid inside a bottle of lighter fluid. If fire gets anywhere near it, everyone in the room will be covered in burning acid and shards of glass.”

Yasha raised her eyebrows. “That’s smart, Nott. Even if we choose to go the diplomacy route, it’s always good to have a backup plan.”

Jester, who had, up until that moment, been crouched down watching a particularly beautiful jeweled beetle crawling across the ground, looked up at Nott and smiled. “You were so sneaky we didn’t even notice you were gone for like, thirty whole seconds.”

Yasha’s eyebrows rose higher. “I mean, I did.”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe we should pay more attention to things.”

Fjord opened his mouth, then immediately shut it, shaking his head. Yasha had the feeling he had some thoughts on that subject, but didn’t want to be a hypocrite. 

Nott turned toward the door as Caleb straightened up. “Does anyone know a silencing spell?”

Yasha, Jester, Fjord, and Caleb shook their heads. “Sorry, Nott,” said Fjord. “We’re gonna have to play it cool, and make sure no one starts yellin’.”

“You should go in first,” Yasha suggested. “The rest of us can come in once you’ve convinced them to hear us out.”

“And if it comes down to it, Caleb can light the bomb and blow them up.” Nott tore a thread off her cloak, eyes wide under her shadowed hood. “Or we can use it to intimidate them, either way.”

Fjord nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Finally,” muttered Beau. Fjord glanced over his shoulder as he made for the door, giving her a look that plainly stated, _You’re one to talk._

° ° °

Yasha ran her fingers over the blade of the longsword. Fjord, disguised as a rough-looking human mercenary, had been gone for at least five minutes now. The raucous sounds of celebration had died down; unfortunately, the conversation was too quiet to make out what was being said. Yasha could just hear the steady, low rumble of Fjord’s voice, interspersed by sharp, loud interjections from the mercenaries. At least everything hadn’t gone to shit immediately—an improvement over their previous plans.

Three or four minutes passed before Fjord stuck his head through the door. “It’s all good,” he said. “They’re willin’ to work with us. On certain terms.”

Jester let out an excited squeak. She bounced over to the door, which Fjord held open, and entered the room, disappearing from sight. “Hi everybody, I’m Jester.” Her voice was muffled by the wall. There were a few disgruntled replies from the mercenaries. “Nice to meet you all, even if you did kind of betray my friends and probably maybe could’ve gotten them killed.”

“Oof,” said Beau. “Sounds like it’s going great in there.”

Yasha shot her a secret smile. Beau grinned back.

One by one they made their way past Fjord and into the room. Yasha scanned the room, taking in the faces of the disgruntled mercenaries. Many had drawn their weapons, eyes darting from one member of the Mighty Nein to the next. A charming, roguishly handsome man with a bright smile and a rusty sword stood at the front of the rag-tag gang, head tilted to the side as he watched Fjord’s companions enter the room. 

“Quite a little team you’ve got there.” His eyes flickered to Beau, Caleb, and Nott. “Ah. We’ve met before.” His smile turned sharp, dangerous. “I see prison disagreed with you.”

“Fu—” Nott started to say. Beau slapped a hand over her mouth, cutting her off. Nott mumbled something incomprehensible, prying Beau’s hand off with an indignant glare.

“I don’t know if we’ve properly introduced ourselves.” The leader of the gang turned to Jester and Yasha. “I’m Nexelen Varadrim of Rexxendrum. But you can call me Nex.” His voice rose and fell in elegant swoops, like a swallow flying through a storm. There was something unsettlingly charming about the way he talked and moved. Yasha found herself wondering if it was magic, or natural charm. “And you lovely ladies are…?”

“Jester,” Jester said. “I think I already said that, but since you asked so nicely, I’ll say it again.”

Nexelen’s eyes flicked to Yasha. She stared back steadily. “My name is Yasha,” she said. “And I wouldn’t call me ‘lovely’ if I were you.”

Beau muttered something under her breath; Yasha glanced at her, and she looked up at the ceiling until Yasha looked away, her arms crossed and expression carefully blank. 

“Your friends here—” Nexelen Varadrim gestured around the room, “—seem sturdy enough. With our numbers and our training—assuming what you said about your people is true, that is—we should be able to take them with some careful planning and forethought. But only if the Shepherds don’t know we’re coming.” There was a brief, loaded pause. “But before we get into the logistics of battle, I want to reiterate the terms of our agreement: Me and mine get all the plunder in the Shepherds’ vaults, plus their supplies and equipment. And their hideout too, of course.” He grinned, gesturing airily around the room. 

Fjord nodded. “Correct. The only things we’ll be takin’ are our own weapons and supplies, which I’m plannin’ to get before the attack, if at all possible.”

“Oh, it’s more than possible,” Nexelen said. “My crew are killers and thieves, born and raised. We’ll get you your weapons, no worries.”

“Then it’s a deal.” Fjord held out a hand . Nexelen took Fjord’s hand, squeezing hard. Yasha noticed Fjord flinch slightly as he pulled away. 

“Deal.” Nexelen flashed his pearly smile. “Just give us a few seconds to gather up our things, and then we’ll be ready to go.” He turned to the watchful mercenaries. “Alright, you heard me. Pack it up! It’s time to carve ourselves a new place in the world, my friends.”

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

The plan was simple: The mercenaries made themselves comfortable in the balconies around the common room while the Mighty Nein faded into the shadowed halls leading into the room. Beau and Nott snuck back up to fill Keg in on the plan, asking her to join them in taking down the Shepherds once and for all. 

With Nott scouting ahead and Keg walking beside her, Beau returned to the lower levels of the Sour Nest. As they rejoined the party on the balconies and prepared for their assault, a series of angry shouts and curses rose from the prison basement. It seemed that Lorenzo had found the empty cells. Beau sorely regretting not getting to see the look on his face when he found the dead elf.

The party split up, blocking every passage into or out of the common room. Fjord and Nott took one entrance. Between Nott’s ranged attacks and Fjord’s melee skills and spellcasting, they had it covered. Yasha and Jester took the second entrance for the same reason, leaving Beau, Keg, and Caleb together in the third.

“If this is even half as epic as it looks in my head, it’s gonna be the best moment of my life,” Beau whispered. Caleb crouched beside her, fingertips glowing like embers. He didn’t reply, so Beau prompted, “You ready to make a scene?”

Caleb grimaced. “Uh, _ja_ , I guess so. Did you make the circle wide enough? If they jump over it, we will lose our advantage.”

Beau rolled her eyes. “This isn’t my first time committing arson, y’know.”

Keg raised her eyebrows. Caleb flinched, and Beau immediately changed the subject. “Jester’s wall art is a fucking masterpiece. Lorenzo’s gonna have an aneurysm when he sees it.”

Caleb half-smiled. “It’s a good drawing, _ja_. Very life-like.”

Keg put a hand on Beau’s shoulder, the other on the handle of her axe. “Jester’s a damn good artist,” she said. “Wouldn’t mind having my portrait done when all this is over.”

The shouting grew louder. Beau hunkered down as the basement door burst open, ricocheting off the stone wall. Lorenzo strode into the room with the remaining Iron Shepherds behind him, his face contorted with fury. He’d shrugged off his human guise, his true form massive and horrible as he brandished his glaive in one hand, the other glowing with icy blue energy. Beau watched, unable to stop the smug grin spreading across her face, as Lorenzo and his goons stopped dead, facing the curved wall directly across from the basement door.

“Find them,” Lorenzo said. His calm words belied the fury in his eyes. “Bring them to me. Apparently, another example needs to be made.”

“I don’t think they like Jester’s art.” Beau nudged Caleb with her elbow. He smiled, and she snickered. “Okay, magic boy, time to light ‘em up.”

Caleb touched the ground. Flames burst from his fingers. The fire spread in a blaze of blinding light, racing around the edge of the room. Beau stayed back until the circle of fire died down slightly; holding her newly retrieved quarterstaff in one hand, she gripped Caleb’s shoulder tight. “You ready to fuck shit up?”

He inhaled shakily. “I guess it is now or never.”

An ear-splitting roll of thunder filled the common room. The keep’s foundations trembled. The fire turned bright blue, icy flames flickering and dancing as they licked the stone walls. “That’s Jester’s signal,” Beau said. “Let’s go.”

Beau launched herself through the entryway, barely clearing the flames. There was a flare of pain in her feet as she landed partially in the fire. Shaking it off, she fell into a fighting stance, twirling her quarterstaff and baring her teeth. Keg landed beside her, shaking off the flames licking at her boots. Caleb joined them a second later, his coat singed, wincing as he landed unsteadily on the edge of the blaze. Beau grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him forward, steadying him with one hand. “ _Danke_ ,” he gasped. 

“No problem.” Beau spun her staff around her waist, transferring it to her right hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fjord and Nott leap into the circle just as Yasha walked straight through the flames with Jester on her shoulders. Jester cheered as Yasha set her down, drawing her axe and lashing her tail. An enormous purple lollypop burst into being over her head. 

Lorenzo turned in a half-circle, raising his glaive and baring his teeth as he watched the Mighty Nein emerge from a ring of shadow and flame. His companions drew their weapons with cries of fear and fury. Lorenzo held up his hand and they fell into fighting stances around him, back-to-back with swords, daggers, and crossbows drawn.

Fjord summoned the falchion. The blade captured the blue flames, gleaming like a shard of ocean ice. “Time to die, you son of a bitch.” He raised his blade and advanced.

Before any of the Nein got too close, Nott lit her acid bomb and chucked it straight into the thick of Lorenzo’s fighters. It went off, green acid and blue fire spattering everyone within a ten-foot radius. From the balconies, the mercenaries’ arrows rained down. Two of the Shepherds and several of their hired thugs dropped to their knees, shrieking and clawing at their skin. Burns bloomed on their hands and faces as the acid ate away their flesh, fire catching in their hair and clothes. Before they could recover, Caleb sent a fireball into their midst, the excess acid and oil exploding in bursts of red and gold. 

Lorenzo roared as the acid spattered the side of his face. He raised his hand and released a blast of frigid air. It swept out in a sixty-foot cone, dousing half the flames and washing over the Nein. Beau ducked her head and gritted her teeth as the freezing air swept past her, deadly cold sinking into her bones. She staggered, breathing hard, smoke billowing in the frosty air. Behind her, Caleb cried out and fell to his knees. Yasha seemed the least hindered by the attack, shrugging off the frost clinging to her matted hair. Fjord, Keg, and Nott slowed, gasping as ice formed on their exposed skin and armor. Like Yasha, Jester seemed mostly unphased. She hung back as Yasha charged in, her Spiritual Weapon flanking Yasha. 

Beau recovered in seconds. She shrugged off the stunning cold, shivering and stiff but no longer immobile. She launched herself at the closest of Lorenzo’s goons, striking him across the blistered face with one end of her staff, knocking him to the ground. Blood trickled from his parted lips as the acid ate through his cheek and neck. He twitched, choked, and then went still.

“Caleb!” Nott crossed to Caleb’s side. Beau glanced back to make sure Caleb was still conscious; once she’d assured herself that he was, she jumped over the lifeless Shepherd and ran at Lorenzo.

Yasha and Lorenzo were engaged in vicious melee battle. Yasha swung her greatsword down with a sky-rending cry, multicolored eyes flashing fury. Lorenzo blocked her strike with his glaive; the weapon bowed under the force of Yasha’s rage. 

Beau came in from behind, slamming Lorenzo across the back with her staff before ducking around to punch him three times in the stomach. The first hit landed on his armored belt buckle, but the other two landed solidly on his abdomen, forcing him back with a pained grunt. “Sup,” Beau said, jerking her chin at Yasha. With a sarcastic smile, she added, “Looked like you needed some help.”

“Move, Beau.” Yasha glared at Lorenzo with single-minded fury. “I don’t want to hit you.”

Beau jumped back as Yasha’s greatsword flashed down, lightning glancing off the broad blade. Lorenzo lifted his glaive to meet the blow, stepping to the side, and the weapon’s pole splintered in half. Yasha’s sword sank into the top of Lorenzo’s shoulder, slicing down his chest from shoulder to hip. Blood spattered the stone floor, geysers of gore painting the greatsword red. Lorenzo snarled as he stumbled back, dropping the lower half of the glaive to press both hands to his bleeding stomach.

Beau took a moment to glance around the battlefield. Scattered around the room, the Iron Shepherds lay in pools of blood, the mercenaries’ arrows and daggers sticking out of their necks and backs. Jester’s lollipop hovered threateningly over the last man standing, batting at him like a cat playing with a mouse. Caleb was still on his knees, looking dazed and half-conscious, while Nott stood stead-fast by his side. Across the room, Nott met Beau’s gaze, and loaded a bolt into her crossbow. Beau gave her a short, approving nod, and turned back to Yasha and Lorenzo.

Lorenzo was still reeling. He had an arrow in one shoulder, the other sliced open. Yasha advanced, and he staggered back, snarling. 

And then he disappeared. 

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” Fjord yelled. “Yasha, don’t let him get away!”

Beau whirled, spinning her staff at nothing. “Where the fuck did he go?”

“He’s invisible!” Nott shrieked. “Shit! Fuck! We’re all gonna die!”

Yasha gasped loudly. Beau turned to see the curving point of Lorenzo’s glaive protruding from Yasha’s stomach, the splintered pole sticking out of her back. Lorenzo stood behind her, one hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. He wore a sadistic, satisfied grin. “Fitting,” he said, lips inches from her ear, “that you’ll die the same way he did.”

Beau screamed as Yasha coughed, blood trickling from her mouth. She wanted to move, _needed_ to move, _fuck fuck fuck shit no not her please not her_ but her legs were weak and her chest too tight to breathe, frozen in horror as Lorenzo twisted the glaive.

“Didn’t I tell you not to fuck with the Iron Shepherds?” Lorenzo glared around the room at Keg and the Nein. “I warned you. I told you what would happen.” He began to draw the glaive from Yasha’s abdomen. As he did, Yasha seized the protruding blade. Lorenzo tugged; his hand fell from her hair, and Yasha twisted away, wrenching the glaive out of his hands. Without breaking eye contact, she grabbed the splintered handle and pulled it out of herself with a feral snarl.

Before Lorenzo could reach for another weapon, conjure a spell or a shield, Yasha thrust the glaive through his chest and pushed him back until the tip of the blade scraped against the stone wall. She lifted him up, impaled on his own weapon, Caleb’s flames licking his feet, blood on her lips and lightning in her eyes. “When they dig your grave, pray they dig it deep.” She twisted the glaive, leaning in until her face was inches from his. “The shallow earth can’t hide you from my rage.”

Beau watched, mouth open and eyes wide, as Lorenzo grinned his last, blood-stained grin. He reached into the pouch on his belt, extracting a piece of folded paper. “You’ve already lost.” He dropped the paper at Yasha’s feet. The hungry flames licked at its edges. His eyes narrowed, gilded teeth bared. “You should’ve kept me alive.”

Yasha hoisted Lorenzo up the wall. The blade shrieked, metal on stone, and blood poured from Lorenzo’s chest, evaporating in the blue flames. Yasha twisted the glaive and Lorenzo’s head fell forward, eyes cold and empty. She let him fall. He sprawled in the fire, the smell of burning flesh filling the cramped, narrow room.

Yasha turned and locked eyes with Beau. “It’s over,” she gasped, and fell unconscious to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most satisfying thing I've written in my life y'all. The best therapy (a lack of) money can buy. Fuck Lorenzo. Seriously, fuck that guy.
> 
> Only one more chapter in Part I after this! And it's all downhill from there


	7. Part I Chapter VII: Ghosts in the Snow

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**GHOSTS IN THE SNOW**

There was an empty space where his heart should be. A deep, piercing cold that had nothing to do with temperature. Everything was numb except for the place over his heart where the letter lay concealed, crumpled beneath a tight-fitting shirt. The only point of contact, a tether to whatever had come before. He couldn’t read it—the letters made his head hurt, no matter how many times he stared at them alone in the dark of his solitary room—but there was comfort in knowing that the cold, unending _nothing_ wasn’t all there was. Someone had written that letter. Whoever he’d been before, they’d kept it secret and safe. They’d hidden it away—his tiny, untouchable secret. He sat staring straight ahead, face carefully blank, unsure of anything and afraid of everything.

The woman across the table smiled at him. Miles of white tablecloth and fine porcelain dishes stood between them. Her skin matched the walls, the ceiling, the too-bright torches in gleaming silver sconces. Pale and ghostly, eyes flashing as she swept a strand of fire-red hair out of her elegantly sculpted face. “You should eat.” It sounded like a threat. “I had this meal prepared special for you. It would be rude to refuse.”

He had nothing. No mind, no heart, no soul. Not even a name to cling to. Whatever he’d been—if he’d been anything at all—had disappeared into the endless swirling nothing in his chest. 

The red-haired woman flashed her blinding smile. “I understand,” she said. She rose to her feet, sliding her chair aside. Like a ghost, she glided across the room to stand behind him. Her long locks fell onto his shoulders as she leaned over him, her breath stirring the hair at the crown of his head. She shifted and her lips brushed his ear, soft and warm. He tried to move away, to turn and look at her, but she grabbed a fistful of his hair and held him in place. “You’re the answer to all my problems.” Her breath was hot, tinged with some unnamable spice. “You’re everything I’ve hoped and prayed for. For _years._ ” She straightened up. The grip on his hair relaxed, nails scraping his scalp as she pulled away.

 _Who am I?_ he wanted to ask. _Why am I here? What do you want from me?_

She gave him a long, sweeping look. Her eyes narrowed. For one wild, terrifying moment, he wondered if she could read his mind. But then the smile returned, softening her eyes and gentling her expression. “My name is Narayah Veltov. For years, I’ve tolerated the laws of the Dwendalian Empire. I’ve lived in it. Studied, trained, been accepted as one of their own.” She braced herself on the table with both hands, bending at the waist. Her hair fell around her face. Her breath rattled, shoulders tense and bunched. When she straightened up and turned to face him again, her eyes were cold. “Yet they would’ve killed me for my beliefs.” She flashed her teeth. “When the ritual failed and they locked me away, I swore that someday—somehow—I would get my revenge. Blood for blood. Violence for violence. An offering to the gods who have brought me not only clarity of mind, but strength of will.”

 _What does this have to do with me?_

“Good and evil are arbitrary. Do you understand?” 

_I don’t understand. I know nothing. I have nothing._

“They called me evil for putting my faith in gods whose power they refuse to acknowledge. And after the ritual, when my mind broke, the Assembly—my colleagues and my friends—hunted me like hounds hunt a fox. But I escaped.” She gripped the white tablecloth in both hands. The fabric bunched, sliding between white knuckles. “I slipped away, just long enough to hide the Book, to keep it safe. They captured me and locked me in an asylum until I found someone powerful enough to break me out.” Her smile was sharp, manic. Then, with an ear-splitting shriek, she ripped the cloth off the table. Plates shattered. The torches flickered as a burst of white light filled the room. “I _refuse_ to wait any longer!” Her voice was a torrent, a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder. “I worked so hard to find you, the last piece of this fucking puzzle. And now that you’re here, everything is different. The faithful will rise. And when we do, we will restore order. The great war is coming, devil! And when it does, the blood of the unrighteous will stain the mortal earth red.”

He couldn’t move. His body was frozen, limbs numb, head tilted back as electricity flashed through him, wave after painful wave. The room spun. Lights flashed, a violent visual storm.

Narayah gasped. The light retreated into her body in trailing wisps of glowing white. The tablecloth fell from shaking hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She took a few staggering steps toward him. “I lost control. I promise I won’t do it again.” She sounded lost, afraid. A motherless child alone in the world. She put her hands on his face, his throat, red-tipped nails scraping along his jaw, her fingertips crackling with suppressed power. A river of lightning flowed beneath the surface, a layer of skin the only thing between Narayah and her captive.

Because that’s what he was. He understood now. He wasn’t here by choice; he couldn't be. How could he make a choice when he didn’t know his own name? 

“I can give you a purpose,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide, pleading. Wetness snaked down her cheeks, dripping off her pointed chin. “This is the only way. The things you can do… you can end this. You can change everything for the better. You can save so many lives.” She paused, taking a shaky breath. “Before you can become who you’re meant to be, you have to shed your past. Remember the strength in your blood. You’ve been given a gift. Power beyond belief. And I can bring it back, I promise. It’ll be hard work, but worth every second spent. And once you’re ready, once it all comes back, there’s a weapon no one else can wield. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. And it broke me. But you…” she shook her head, something close to reverence in her eyes, “…it’s in your blood, this magic. This power. I’ll teach you to control it. And then the true rulers of this world can rise, and the darkness will bring a new dawn.” Her eyes flashed green fire. “Do you understand? Do you understand how important you are?”

 _I want to remember. I don’t understand any of this. I just want to know who I am._ The words wouldn’t come. Stuck in his throat, lodged in his lungs. He closed his eyes.

“We’re so close,” Naraya whispered. She knelt beside him, taking his hand in hers. “So close.”

She kissed his forehead, and he felt nothing at all.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Lorenzo burned. Caleb stood over him until he was ash only, a pile of flickering coals and gray dust. Outside the Sour Nest, snow fell in thick, flurrying flakes. Far away, Yasha stood in the drifts, looking out over the landscape in solitary silence. The wind whipped her white-tipped hair around her head. A storm in human form, Caleb thought. A goddess of thunder fallen to earth.

Lorenzo burned, and Caleb remembered.

_Silver blades blurred, a flash of light and then, the fall. A red rose bloomed from Molly’s chest, staining the snow-dusted grass and dirt. The hilts of his blades rested in open palms. Faint starlight flickered between gathering clouds, reflected in open red eyes…_

Tears froze on Caleb’s lashes. The coals stayed branded in his mind long after the fire died. He stayed like that, shaking with the cold, until a firm hand gripped his shoulder and a smaller, more familiar hand slipped into his.

“Caleb.” Nott’s voice was soft, shaky. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, you doin’ okay?” Beau. Awkward and clearly out of her element, but trying her best.

Caleb closed his eyes. These people had fought for him. They’d protected him, laughed with him, put up with his weaknesses and praised his strengths. He didn’t know if he trusted them, but he cared about them. And right now, he could feel how much they were hurting.

“ _Ja_.” He shook off memories clinging like ghosts. “Is Jester okay? And Fjord?”

Beau nodded. “Yeah. Jester healed everyone who needed it.”

“And Yasha?”

Caleb didn’t miss the way Beau’s face contorted for a moment before she tamed it back into a neutral expression. She shrugged. Her gaze shifted to Yasha’s distant, snow-wreathed figure. “Seems to be doing fine. Jester got to her in time. I mean, she’s gonna have one hell of a scar, but I feel like Yasha’s not the type to care about that.” There was a beat of silence. “Anyway, scars are kinda hot. Like, they show you survived something.”

Nott pressed herself against Caleb’s side. Her hand shook in his. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one affected by the cold. “Molly had lots of scars,” she said. “But he did that to himself. I feel like that’s a different thing altogether.”

Beau’s hand fell from Caleb’s shoulder. She tilted her head back, snow collecting on her lashes and in her hair. “That fucking idiot.” Her voice was rough, grief disguised as anger. “He should’ve known better.”

Caleb stared at Lorenzo’s ashes. “ _Ja_ ,” he said quietly. “I think, in a way, he did know. And that’s why he did it. Because it was a choice between us and him, and he…” He ducked his head, breath rattling in his chest. He exhaled smoke, fire in his lungs, ashes in his mouth. He swallowed hard. “He was the best of us.”

“Yeah.” Beau wiped at her eyes. “I’m gonna go find Jester. We promised to piss on Lorenzo’s grave when this was over.”

“It’s what Molly would’ve wanted.” Nott sounded caught between humor and genuine sadness. 

Beau laughed shakily. As she turned and walked back toward the Sour Nest, she reached down and tugged on the top of Nott’s hood. “You’re welcome to join us,” she said. “We can make a girls’ night of it. It’ll be fun.”

Nott squeezed Caleb’s hand again. “Thanks, Beau,” she said. “But I think I’ll just stay with Caleb for a bit. You two have fun, if that’s the right word for it?”

“I mean, if you don’t move, you’re gonna see it anyway.” Beau shrugged one shoulder. “It’s your choice.” She walked away, snow crunching under her boots.

Nott tugged on Caleb’s sleeve. “Caleb? Are you really okay?”

Caleb pressed a hand to his face. His eyes burned. The fire in his fingertips faded, leaving behind an aching, frozen numbness. “No, Nott. I’m not okay.” The wind captured the whispered words and they drifted up into the snow-laden clouds.

Nott’s voice shook. “Will you be?”

Caleb looked down at her. Her yellow eyes were wide, concern written across her face. Caleb conjured the ghost of a smile. “I have you, don’t I?”

Nott’s grip on his hand tightened. “Of course. Always. I’m never going to leave you, Caleb.”

Caleb exhaled. The smoke in his lungs floated away, the ash on his tongue disintegrating. “Then I’ll be okay.”

They stood together for a while longer, watching the wind scatter Lorenzo’s remains across the snow. Overhead, lightning flashed. Thunder rolled. The wind wailed, and in it was a familiar refrain: the voice of the storm, a song of mourning gliding on skeletal wings.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

No one wanted to confront Yasha about the letter. As soon as Jester healed her, she’d risen to her feet, ripped the letter open, and swept out of the room without a word. Beau had gone after her, but by that time she’d disappeared into the storm. There was no point trying to track Yasha in a snowstorm. Beau thought her odds of success were roughly one in a thousand.

Yasha returned to watch as they dragged Lorenzo’s corpse outside. She stood a way off, cloaked in snow and wind, her hair whipping across her face. As fire sprung from Caleb’s fingertips and caught in Lorenzo’s flesh, her multicolored eyes flashed in the red light. Beau watched her watch Lorenzo. There was something in her face that wasn’t quite grief, and wasn’t quite fury. It was something else entirely—something closer to devastation. Her eyes were empty, cold and distant. Beau wanted to go to her, to take the edge off that emptiness, but comfort wasn’t her forte. Unlike the odds of tracking Yasha in a snowstorm, her odds of making a complete ass of herself were roughly nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine in a thousand.

Jester and Fjord were down in a small, cozy living room adjacent to the common room. Keg had stayed just long enough for brief goodbyes before heading back to Shady Creek Run. Once she'd gone, Fjord and Jester set to the task of making the rescued captives comfortable. There were five of them—a half-orc mother and her two children; a skinny, weary half-elf man with scarred hands and frightened eyes; and a little human girl who couldn’t’ve been more than eight or nine. Beau had only met them in passing. Bruised and bloody, she’d kept her distance, leaning on her staff and grimacing as Jester sang songs for the children and cleaned dirt off their faces. 

There was one Iron Shepherd they’d kept alive. He was shackled and unconscious in the basement, locked behind two iron-clad doors. They’d discussed what to do with him for longer than he deserved; after finding out he’d killed the half-orc’s third child and fed him to Lorenzo, they decided to leave his fate in the mother’s hands. He hadn’t offered any useful information anyway. Just another hired grunt who was in it for the gold.

Beau hoped that his death, when it came, would be excruciating. Judging by the half-orc’s reaction to finding out her tormentor was alive, it would be, and then some.

Once Jester finished healing the injured and generally raising everyone’s spirits, she and Beau made their way back into the common room. 

“You know, I actually think it’s one of your best pieces.” Beau jerked her chin at the mural on the curved stone wall. “Really ties the room together.”

Jester giggled. “Thanks, Beau! Maybe I should draw it in my sketchbook so the Traveler can see it, too. I think he hates Lorenzo as much as we do, probably.” 

Beau gave Jester a side-long look. Only hours ago, they’d been chained and locked in a slavers’ dungeon, and already Jester’s good spirits and unshakable humor were returning. Jester was incredibly brave, Beau thought. To laugh in the face of adversity—to hold up a candle in her darkest hour—was beyond battlefield strength or physical endurance. _Gods help anyone who underestimates her,_ Beau thought. _And double help them if they doubt her ability to draw incredibly life-like dicks that somehow resemble a specific living person all over the walls._

Well, not a _living_ person. Not anymore. Yasha had seen to that.

Caleb and Nott were gone by the time Jester and Beau emerged into the storm. Laughing and swearing, they thoroughly desecrated Lorenzo’s grave before ducking back inside, making for the cozy living area to warm themselves by the fire.

“Keep it quiet,” said Fjord as Beau and Jester bust into the room, still laughing breathlessly. “Everyone’s tryin’ to sleep in here.”

Jester covered her mouth with both hands. “Oops! Sorry, Fjord. It’s just, Beau and I were… um, we were…”

Beau elbowed her. “We were looking for firewood,” she said. Fjord raised his eyebrows. Beau shrugged. “Couldn’t find any, though. Everything’s covered in snow up there.”

Fjord sighed. “There’s a couple’a spare bed rolls back behind that couch.” He gestured toward a pile of thin pillows and thick furs. “Should be enough for one night. Or however long we’re plannin’ on stayin’ here.”

Jester made a face. “Hopefully not too long. This place is cold, and there’s nothing but rocks and rats and probably also dead bodies buried in the walls.”

Fjord’s eyebrows rose to record heights. “Now why do you say that, Jester?”

Jester shrugged. “Places like this always have dark secrets. It’s probably haunted; maybe there are ghosts, or murderers, or ghost murderers living here. You never know.”

Beau clenched her jaw. “There’s at least one murderer,” she said. “If his ghost tries anything, I’ll drag him back to hell with my bare hands.”

“You two should get some sleep.” Fjord crossed his arms. “Today was hard on all of us.”

Jester swooped in to kiss Fjord on the cheek. Fjord muttered something incomprehensible, a slight green flush rising in his face. “Goodnight, Fjord,” Jester whispered loudly, flashing him a cheerful smile. 

“’Night, Jester.” Fjord blinked a few times, looking a little dazed, as she bounced away toward the pile of sleeping rolls and pillows.

Beau smirked. She crossed her arms, mimicking Fjord’s stance. “So, are you two…?”

Fjord shook his head. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Uh, no. Just Jester bein’ Jester.”

“Sure. Riiight.”

Fjord gave her a hard look. “I’m goin’ to bed. Let me know if anyone needs anything. I’ve got the feelin’ I might sleep through anything short of the keep collapsin’.”

Beau nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna go look for firewood.” A brief, awkward pause. “For real, this time.”

“You do that. Just be careful not to get lost out there. Can’t promise anyone’ll find you if you wander off.”

Beau rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

With a last disgruntled look, Fjord walked away.

For a long moment Beau leaned against the doorway, hip jutted to one side, arms crossed and head tilted back. Fjord crossed the room and pulled out two blankets and a pillow from the pile. With his back to Beau he leaned over Jester, who had already made a Tiefling burrito of herself, and laid another blanket over her huddled form. Beau smirked, turning to leave the room.

A low whisper stopped her. She glanced back, frowning. The rest of the party and the rescued captives were scattered across the floor, some curled on the couches and armchairs. Fjord had settled in their midst, still in his armor with his falchion in his hand. They all appeared fast asleep. 

All except Caleb. He sat on the stone floor with his legs crossed and his spellbook open on his lap, staring into the fire. His mouth moved around silent words. His eyes were glazed and distant, fixed on something only he could see. The firelight danced across his face, shining in his auburn hair. He seemed entirely in another world. Beau began to approach, then stopped herself. It was none of her business. Besides, she’d probably just make it worse.

Curled next to Caleb, Nott made a soft sound in her sleep. Caleb startled. He turned, putting a hand on her hooded head. Beau’s boots squeaked against the floor as she turned to leave; Caleb looked up and their eyes locked. He blinked rapidly, looking back toward the flames. “I will keep watch,” he said softly. “You don’t need to worry about it, Beauregard.”

“Yeah.” Beau swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yeah, okay.”

The hollowness in her chest followed her into the hallway, down the stairs, and into the Iron Shepherds’ treasury. The mercenaries, true to their agreement, had taken everything except for the Mighty Nein’s stolen weapons and supplies, including several health potions and the enchanted manacles used to subdue Yasha. To her relief, Nex and his men had left Molly’s coat untouched. Beau stood staring at it, draped carelessly over the back of a chair, the once-vibrant colors faded to rust-red and dull brown. Lorenzo’s goons had taken it off her earlier; she’d bitten one and elbowed the other so hard his jaw had broken, but the fight was hopelessly one-sided from the beginning.

Looking at it now, she didn’t know why she cared. It was a mess, once-bright symbols faded and bloody. _An assault to the eyes,_ someone had once described it. Beau had to agree—especially after all it had been through.

Nevertheless, she found herself lifting it off the chair and folding it. Crusted mud and blood cracked, flaking off. She winced, grimacing. “Molly, if you’re somehow watching this right now, then fuck you. I hate this stupid thing. I just thought maybe Yasha would want it. Y’know. To remember you by.” Her eyes burned. She wiped angrily at them. “I hate this.” Her voice broke. The empty treasury caught the broken shards of her words and threw them back at her from every angle; for a moment she felt like a child, a little girl lost in a world that didn’t understand her.

Beau ducked her head. The coat fell from numb fingers. She sank into a crouch, pressing her palms into the sockets of her eyes. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t, because that meant there was something worth crying over. 

_Sometimes bad things happen,_ she told herself. _No point in crying over shit you can’t change._

They were her father’s words. Words she’d kept locked away for years, a sheathe of cold indifference built up around her like a shield. 

“You’re wrong,” Beau told the darkness. She stood up, reached for her staff, and spun it around, bringing it down hard on the table. “You’re _wrong!_ ” Her ears rang from the impact. Her fingers went numb. She stood there, shaking with rage, the darkness wrapping around her like a suffocating cloak. 

° ° °

Yasha hadn’t moved since they’d burned Lorenzo. Snow billowed around her, an aura of frozen white. As Beau fought through the storm, she noticed that Yasha’s hair was crusted with ice. Yasha had stuck her greatsword in the deep drifts gathering around her feet, the blade leaning toward its master.

“Hey! Hey, Yasha!” Beau panted, fighting through knee-deep drifts of wet snow. She stopped behind Yasha, roughly ten feet away. “Hey,” she said, softer this time. “You doin’ okay?” As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. _No fucking shit. Of course she’s not okay._

Yasha turned around. Frost crystals bloomed on her cheeks, pale skin tinged blue. Her two-toned eyes held something close to anger, but closer to regret. “Beau.” Her voice was soft. Defeated. Then her eyes flickered down to the bundle in Beau’s hands, and her jaw noticeably tightened. She staggered forward, snow clinging to her legs, and held out her hands.

“I thought—” Beau started. She swallowed hard, laying Molly’s coat in Yasha’s hands. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d want to keep it. Y’know. Because…” She faded off. She drew a hand over her face, her throat tightening. “You two were close. I mean, closer than…” Words stumbled on her tongue, clinging like thorns. “Just thought you’d want it. That’s all.” 

Yasha stared at the coat for a long moment. Her throat bobbed, lips parted. She closed her eyes. Lightning split the sky. Thunder followed, deafening peals rolling over the snow-clad landscape. For an instant, Beau saw the outline of huge skeletal wings spreading from Yasha’s shoulders. Energy crackled around them. The hairs on Beau’s arms stood on end.

Beau turned to walk away. This seemed like a private moment, and she didn’t want to intrude. But then Yasha called her name, soft and pleading, and Beau looked back over her shoulder. Yasha hung Molly’s coat on the hilt of her sword; it twirled and danced in the wind. As Beau watched, Yasha reached into her pocket and extracted a piece of white paper wrapped in golden thread.

“Is that…?” Beau pointed to the scrap of paper in Yasha’s hand, frowning. “Is that Lorenzo’s letter?”

Yasha nodded. 

Beau bit her lip. Curiosity tugged at her, sharp and insistent. She approached. “So, what’s it say?”

Yasha was silent. Then she unfolded the letter and held it out to Beau. The wind nipped at it with icy fangs, trying to snatch it away. Beau snatched it first. Her fingers trembled, shoulders shaking. She tugged off the golden ribbon. It slipped around her wrist, soft and silken. With numb fingers, she unrolled the letter, thumbs leaving crinkled imprints in the singed paper. 

_Lorenzo,_ the letter began, 

_Everything is in place. They’ll come after you. When they do, remember: Don’t spend the spell on anyone else. Otherwise the ritual will fail. Once he’s down, make sure they leave the body behind. Your reward is in a safe location. On completion of this assignment, I will give you that location._

_Good luck._

_N.V._

“Oh shit,” said Beau. “Oh, _fuck._ ”

Yasha took the letter back. She rolled it up and wrapped it in gold, tucking it back into her pocket. “Before Lorenzo died, he said we don’t know what we’re up against. But whoever they are—” she touched the pouch where the letter lay concealed, “—neither do they.”

Lightning, forked and bright as summer sunlight, flashed on the horizon. North to south, spreading like poison from a wound. Yasha turned away, facing the wind, and as Beau watched, it seemed to engulf her—an old friend welcoming her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of Part I and y'all, editing this is kinda wrecking me. I know a few people are reading it (and for real y'all are the real MVPs and I love you), but for the most part it doesn't seem like it's worth taking the time to post it here. I wrote this for myself as a fun lil therapy project (writing is THERAPY, damn it!) so I'm happy either way. But I also know a lot of people read fics without interacting with them, so I wanna make sure I'm not just making assumptions based on stats!! Either way, here's the end of Part I, and even though it's only half-heartedly edited, I hope y'all enjoy it anyway! :)


	8. Part II Chapter VIII: The Lightning Mage

**PART TWO: THE COMPOUND**

**___________**

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**THE LIGHTNING MAGE**

“It’s been two months.” Narayah paced the room. Her hair was uncombed, lank and listless. “And you’re telling me _this_ is the only progress you’ve made?” She gestured to the motionless yeti sprawled on the stone floor, blood leaking from its eyes, nose, mouth. “This is pathetic. This is…” She stopped, clenching and unclenching her fists. “This isn’t _enough._ Do you have any idea what you’re capable of? If you just tried harder, worked hard, do you know how powerful you could be?”

The lavender Tiefling knelt on the bloodstained floor. A dagger lay by his right knee, his sword embedded in the yeti’s motionless chest. Narayah felt a surge of rage at his lack of reaction. Red trickled down his neck, soaking into his shirt. The fabric clung to his body, tight and high around his neck, the collar brushing his chin. It rippled and shimmered, blending with the walls, hiding him despite his lack of cover. A walking shadow, motionless and silent, save for the tip of his tail, which flicked relentlessly back and forth, betraying his agitation. 

Narayah approached. The Tiefling stared straight ahead, face stony and expressionless. She laid a hand on top of his head, stroking his horns, tracing the grooves and tiny pierced holes—a gentle touch belying the anger churning in her chest. “This isn’t enough,” she repeated. “If you want to make a difference—if you want to make this world a better place—you’re going to have to try harder. Train harder, fight harder. Be _better_.”

The Tiefling tilted his head back, leaning into her touch. He hadn’t spoken since Narayah’s outburst at the table almost two months before; no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get a single word out of him. Which was probably for the best—he was a weapon, a shadow. A weapon didn’t have a voice. A shadow didn’t need one.

“I’ve noticed that you and Kenith have been getting along,” she said. The Tiefling flinched. Kenith had always been a loose cannon, Narayah thought. But lately, he’d been working in direct conflict with her plans. And for that, there would be a reckoning. He knew what was at stake if the plan failed. If Exandria remained unchanged, then Narayah had lost everything for nothing. 

Narayah turned to the sentinel standing by the locked door. It had been a weeks since the Tiefling had last tried to escape, but she had to be sure. After all the work she’d put into retraining him, reawakening buried instincts and power, she couldn’t risk losing him. 

She had made that mistake once before. 

Never again.

“Dyran.” She smiled at the sentinel. “Could you fetch Kenith for me? Tell him I need him for a training exercise.”

Dyran nodded. “Of course, Lady Veltrov. Anything for you.” He returned her smile with a wink.

The Tiefling stayed motionless, staring blankly at the ground. Narayah leaned against the doorway, guarding it while Dyran was away. A flicker of lightning ran down her arm, sparking off her fingertips. “I’m so sorry about all this.” Her chest tightened, and for a moment, her throat closed up. There were times she felt so guilty she thought it would tear her apart. But then she remembered what this devil-blooded creature had tried to do—what he’d wanted _her_ to do—and the guilt spiraled into anger and spite. This was what he deserved. By taking away his memories, his evil purpose, she was doing the world a favor. The fact that it also served her own interests was irrelevant. 

° ° °

Dyran returned with Kenith, who was dressed in his perpetual blue-lined grey robes, smiling his warm, kind smile. “Narayah, hi. You need me for something?”

Narayah gestured at the Tiefling. Kenith followed her gaze. When he saw the Tiefling’s red-stained neck and clothes, he made a soft, sad sound. “Narayah.” His voice was edged with pity. “You have to remember, he has no idea what he’s doing. His mind’s only two months old. It’ll come back eventually, but you need to be patient.”

Narayah’s blood boiled. _Patient_! She’d had enough of patience. For years she’d rotted in an asylum, scorned and disowned by her friends and family, kept alive only by the strength of her faith. Why should she be patient when victory was so close at hand?

In that instant, wreathed in an untamable rage, she made her decision. “Kenith,” she commanded, “come here.”

Kenith frowned but complied. Narayah captured his face in her hands, closing her eyes. She leaned in, lips an inch from his ear, and whispered: “ _Kill him._ ”

Her hands fell from Kenith’s face. Remnant power flickered between her fingers. Kenith blinked, eyes dull and distant. “Yes, Lady Veltrov.” He sounded hollow, empty. “Anything for you.”

Narayah stepped back. She clenched her fists, lightning crackling up and down her arms. The room was charged with electricity, anticipation, the threat of violence. “ _The sword,_ ” she hissed. “ _Get the sword._ ”

Kenith crossed the room to the yeti’s body. He pulled the sword out with a bloody, wet sound. He brandished the red-stained blade, holding it up in the light of nine torches. Turning on the motionless Tiefling, he bared his teeth. 

“On your feet,” Narayah snarled at the Tiefling. “ _Now._ ”

Kenith charged. His sword came down in a silver arc, blood spinning off the tip and spattering the floor. The Tiefling didn’t react until the last possible second. Ignoring the dagger lying a few feet from his left knee, he rolled out of the way with practiced ease. The sword sent sparks flying. The tip notched, shards of steel skittering across the floor.

The Tiefling gained his feet. His eyes were wide, shock and betrayal written on his face. His lips parted, and for a moment it looked like he would speak. But then he met Narayah’s gaze across the room; he clenched his jaw, his expression an empty slate. 

“Kill him.” Narayah wasn’t sure who she was talking to. Red filled her vision, heart pounding, veins full of adrenaline. “ _Kill him!_ ”

The Tiefling crouched, tail lashing. He bared his fangs. His eyes gleamed in the torchlight. He backed up against the wall, palms flat to the stone, chest heaving as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. 

Kenith advanced, blank-eyed and stiff. He swung the blade down at the Tiefling’s blood-stained neck. The Tiefling dodged to the left, dashing forward and skidding on his knees next to the dagger. He picked it up, whirling to face Kenith. The bloody dagger glinting down its cruel, jagged edge.

Kenith snarled as he swung at his opponent’s throat again. This time, he stopped mid-swing, dropping the sword. He stumbled. Blood dripped from his nose, eyes rolling up as red tears flowed down his cheeks. He fell to his knees, lifting shaking hands to claw at his face, gasping. He slumped to the ground, bleeding profusely, bronze skin paling in the torchlight. 

Narayah was so focused on Kenith’s fall that she momentarily lost track of the Tiefling. As Kenith stilled, she glanced around the room, mouth open to congratulate the victor. 

There was a thud behind her. She whirled to see Dyran lying motionless on the floor with blood trickling from his half-closed eyes.

The dagger plunged into her side. It slid between her ribs, steel on bone. Her chest constricted, airless and tight. With a shriek, she twisted around, lightning in her touch, and pressed both hands to her attacker’s chest. He flew ten feet back and collapsed. Smoke rose from his singed shirt. Across the distance, she couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. Clutching at the dagger protruding from her side, she found she didn’t care.

“Help!” Narayah gasped, tasting blood. “Help me!”

Two members of Torrent rushed into the room. As her vision blurred and began to fade, she recognized Myriel and Kyren, two half-elven siblings who’d nearly been executed for conducting blood rituals in Rexxentrum. She relaxed into Myriel’s arms. She trusted them more than anyone; they had made the same sacrifices for their god, proving their devotion time and time again. They shared a mind, a purpose. A reason to be alive.

With tears in her eyes, Narayah went limp. In the distance, her companions were shouting her name, over and over until it blurred into a single long note, like the refrain of a half-forgotten song.

The song swelled to a crescendo. She closed her eyes and fell.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“Another dead end.” Beau threw down a stack of stolen letters. She collapsed onto the nearest couch, kicking aside the luxurious pillows and stretching out. She flipped onto her stomach and jerked her chin at Caleb, who was sitting at a desk hunched over a spellbook. “Any luck with the glaive?”

Caleb didn’t look up. Beau threw a pillow. Nott, wrapped in blankets on the bed next to Caleb’s desk, caught it mid-air and threw it into Beau’s face. 

“Ow, fuck.” Beau flipped Nott off. Nott burrowed back under the covers, the tips of her ears sticking up like two green sailboats afloat on a frothy ocean. Beau turned onto her back and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Caleb. Seriously.”

“Oh. Um.” Caleb shook himself. Beau sat up, noting the weariness etched in every inch of his face. Guilt washed over her. He looked half-dead; she couldn’t remember seeing him sleep for at least four days. “Nothing new. The enchantment is of a necrotic nature—school of necromancy—and it was certainly done by a very powerful necromancer of some kind.” He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders fell, elbows resting heavily on the edge of the desk. “Nothing I did not already know.”

“Look, man. I can take a shift if you need to sleep.”

Caleb’s hands fell away. He half-smiled at her, shaking his head. “I appreciate the offer, but you are not a mage, Beauregard.”

Beau pushed herself upright, leaning on the couch’s armrest. “Hey, I mean, it can’t be that hard, right? Just read a bunch of books and see if anything matches up.”

Caleb’s smile fell away. He turned back to his books. “It’s just…” His voice faded off, quiet and solemn as a funeral. Set against the luxurious decadence of their rented room, his dark, dejected mood was even more obvious. 

Jester and Fjord had managed to charm the inn’s owner into giving them a honeymoon suite (Fjord had needed a bit of convincing to agree to the con) at a ridiculously discounted price. It wasn’t that they needed the suite for anything, but after months of searching all of northern Exandria for the ever-elusive N.V., it was a welcome luxury. And, given the frankly horrifying prices of lodging in Zadash, they couldn’t afford to pay full price.

Caleb sighed. “I have to do this. It is…” He faded off again. “I don’t know. I feel like I can’t let it go. If I do and something bad happens, and I could have stopped it, then I will never forgive myself.”

“That seems to be a running theme with you.” Beau raised her eyebrows at his back. His shoulders tensed, and she felt guilty again. “Look. I’m not telling you to give up. I’m just saying you should maybe sleep for at least one full night. I don’t know if you know this, but sleep is actually something humans need to live.”

Even without seeing his face, she could tell he was unamused. He didn’t reply, and she took this as a sign that the conversation was over.

“Fine. You do you, man. But when you die of sleep-deprivation-induced heart problems at age forty, don’t come crying to me.”

“ _Ja_ , I won’t,” Caleb muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “Because I’ll be dead.”

“Okay, you got me there.” Beau sighed. “Hey Nott,” she said loudly, earning a pained groan from Nott, who had been drinking heavily for the past three days; Beau assumed she had the hangover of the century. “You want your pillow back, or what?”

Nott’s head emerged from under the covers. “Ahhhh! It’s not even my pillow, Beau! Shut up!” She disappeared before Beau could react, bunching the comforter around herself like a feather nest.

“It’s not my fault you’re fuckin’ wasted,” Beau muttered. She set the pillow on the couch and flopped down again. There were only three beds—one big enough for two; inevitably, this had gone to Jester and Fjord—and Beau couldn’t bring herself to waste one on herself when she was perfectly comfortable on the couch. Besides, Yasha had laid out a bed on the plush rug next to the couch, and Beau found that, recently, the quality of her sleep was directly correlated with Yasha’s proximity. 

As she drifted off to sleep, Beau was distantly aware of Fjord and Jester talking in hushed voices in the hallway outside. Occasionally Caleb muttered something to himself, sounding exhausted but determined. Beau wanted to stay up until Yasha returned from wherever the hell she’d disappeared to, but the second she got comfortable, it was over. She slipped into dreams spattered with red, flashes of steel and burning white light cutting her open, blinding her eyes and spilling through her open mouth. It surrounded her, merging with her flesh. When she looked down, her hands were pale, red-tipped nails and golden rings. Between her fingers lightning sparked and danced, violent and beautiful. She clenched her fists, and the lightning spread up her arms, seizing her chest and freezing her muscles. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even open her eyes…

Beau woke up gasping, covered in sweat. At the back of her throat, she tasted blood.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Caleb woke up with his head pillowed on a copy of _Merle Venderbelt’s Guide to Necromantic Enchantments_. His hair stuck to his face; he pushed it behind his ears, groaning aloud. He shifted and realized that someone—probably Nott—had draped a blanket over him. A fresh cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes with bacon were balanced atop a heap of books. The smell hit him like an arrow to the chest. He’d been so immersed in his studies since arriving in Zadash that he’d neglected the simplest of human necessities. 

Maybe Beau was right, he thought. Maybe he was trying to do too much.

He’d just started eating when it hit him. Pushing himself upright, he headed for the door. He was about to make his way downstairs when he realized that nobody else had left the room—apparently Jester and Fjord had managed to work room service into the deal.

“Good morning, Caleb!” Jester waved at him from the king-sized bed next to the window. She had a tray of food on her lap, including a stack of pancakes about a mile high. “Did you eat anything? Because you really should; these pancakes were probably made by some sort of pancake god or something, because they’re the most amazing thing ever. I even drew them for the Traveler, because I don’t know if he can actually eat things, but I thought maybe he’d like to hear about them, at least.”

Caleb smiled at her. “I’ll eat later. First, there’s something I need to tell you all.”

Fjord, sitting up in bed as far away from Jester as physically possible, still fully clothed and looking incredibly out of place and uncomfortable, raised his eyebrows at Caleb. “I’m not tryin’ to be rude, Caleb, but if you don’t eat somethin’ at some point, you’re gonna drop dead.”

“ _Ja_ , Beau already made me aware of my human weaknesses.” Caleb injected as much sarcasm into his words as possible. Beau, sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee trapped between her folded knees, draped her head over the back of the couch and smirked at him. Caleb pointedly ignored her. “This is serious,” he said. “I found something important. I didn’t realize it was important last night, but this morning… it is all clear now, and I think I know what we need to do.”

This got their attention. Even Nott emerged from her hangover hideout, blinking furiously as the morning light hit her full in the face. She made a high-pitched sound of protest. Yasha, sitting with her greatsword in her lap and a whetstone in her hand, rose to her feet. She set the sword aside, two-tone eyes fixed on Caleb with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Well?” Jester prompted, mouth full of pancake. “What is this big secret you figured out, Caleb?”

“It is not a secret.” Caleb crossed to the desk, snatching up the guide to divination and the book on necromancy he’d been reading the night before. He held up the divination tome. “There is a ritual in here somewhere that allows you to scry through dreams. It is very theoretical, but from what I have read, it should be possible.” 

“What? Are you fuckin’ serious?” Beau launched herself upright, spilling coffee all over the couch. She swore loudly.

While she was distracted, Caleb continued. He held up the book on necromancy. “The spell placed on Lorenzo’s glaive was necromantic in nature. That is all I knew about it for a long time, because the spell is far above anything I can currently cast or even understand. But maybe— _maybe_ —we can use this limited knowledge of the glaive spell to scry on whoever cast it.”

Beau vaulted over the back of the couch. She marched straight up to Caleb, pointing her finger threateningly at his chest. “You already did it. Whatever the fuck you just said, you did it last night. Maybe you don’t remember doing it—sleep deprivation is one hell of a drug—but you did it. Y’know how I know?”

Caleb blinked rapidly. He took a step back. “Uh… _nein?_ ”

“Because I had a dream. A weird-ass fucking dream that was so fuckin’ real I thought it’d actually happened to me in real life.” She looked down at her hands, turning them over and flexing her fingers. “I was in someone else’s head. Some kind of powerful mage with lightning powers or something, I don’t know. She had red nails, and a whole bunch of stupid rich-people rings.” Another pause. “I think something really shitty happened to her. I think I— _she_ —was dying. I couldn’t breathe, and I was like, frozen in place.” She narrowed her eyes at Caleb. “I don’t know if you meant to do that shit, but I’m gonna kick your ass anyway.”

“If you touch Caleb, I will smother you with a pillow,” Nott said. “Consider that a promise _and_ a threat.”

Caleb ran a hand through his tangled hair. His chest ached, hands shaking and legs suddenly weak. “You mean I… I cast a ritual that I can’t remember casting?”

Beau frowned. “I mean, I guess. I don’t know how it went down, but I’m telling you, that wasn’t a normal dream. No way in nine hells.”

Fjord pointed at the divination book. “Mind if I take a look?” Caleb handed it over. Fjord flipped it open. After a few moments he pressed the tip of his finger to the center of a page. “Right there. Look at this.”

Caleb frowned, pushing the top of the book down so he could see what Fjord was pointing at. “Ah.” A weight lifted from his chest. He exhaled. “I don’t remember doing the ritual because I didn’t know I was doing it in the first place.”

Fjord clapped Caleb on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’re not goin’ crazy.”

“Not more than usual,” Caleb murmured. He read the passage once, twice, and a third time just in case. Not that he needed to—the words stuck in his mind, vivid and clear. “I must have said those words aloud. That and the fact that the glaive was right in front of me was all it needed to work.” He looked up and found Beau still glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Beauregard. You were the last person I spoke to before I conducted the ritual, and the first to fall asleep. The ritual must have latched on to you as soon as you began to dream.”

Beau sighed, uncrossing her arms. “Hey, it’s not your fault, Caleb. We all do stupid shit without meaning to.”

Jester, who’d spent the last two minutes trying to untangle herself from her sheets without spilling her pancakes all over the comforter, finally managed to extract herself and slide off the bed. She was wearing one of the fancy silken robes that had come with the suite; the pink fabric shimmered and whispered as she slipped around the bed, past the cold winter sunlight slanting through the window. She skipped up to Fjord, looking curious and a bit rumpled. “How did you know about that ritual, Fjord?” She covered a yawn, blinking away the last traces of sleep. “Did you learn about it when you were studying hexes and stuff?”

Fjord shrugged. “I looked at some of the books after Caleb fell asleep. I hope you don’t mind,” he added, giving Caleb a somewhat apprehensive look.

Caleb shook his head. “ _Nein_ , I don’t mind. In fact, it was good that you did, or I would be having a very hard time explaining myself right now.”

Yasha, who had stayed silent through this conversation, moved around the couch, shoulders tense and movements stiff. Caleb wondered if she’d been awake all night, sitting with her sword in her lap on that horrible pink rug. If so, the weariness in her eyes had been chased away by cautious hope. “Caleb.” Her voice was soft but strong. “Do you know what it means? What Beau saw?”

Caleb looked between Yasha and Beau. “I don’t… no, I don’t think I do. But I do think Beau saw the woman who cast the spell.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t suffer for nothing.” Beau shot Yasha an unusually genuine smile. “We know N.V.’s a woman now.”

“That is good news.” Fjord took the cup of coffee Jester was trying to force into his hand. He raised it to his lips, still staring at the divination book in Caleb’s hand. He handed the cup back to Jester, who took a drink, smiling widely. Caleb raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“Hey, so you think you can do this ritual on yourself?” Beau leaned against the back of the couch, arms crossed and head tilted slightly to one side. “Maybe find out more about this woman and what she can do?”

“And more importantly,” Yasha added, reaching for her sword again, “who she is, and where we can find her.” She gripped the hilt, leaning on it like a hiker’s stick. The tip sank into the polished wood floors; Fjord visibly winced.

Caleb nodded slowly. “ _Ja_. I should be able to recreate the ritual. Now that I know I have already done it, it shouldn’t be hard to do it again.”

“Well, that’s good.” Jester handed the cup back to Fjord. She stretched, hands clasped in front of her, and yawned widely again. Dancing over to the bed, she reached for her tray of food and carried it back to the couch. She sat down, settling it on her lap, and tapped Beau on the shoulder. “Beau. You should really try these pancakes. They’re amaaaaazing.”

“Oh, hell yeah.” Beau grabbed a pancake off Jester’s plate and crammed the whole thing in her mouth. Caleb watched, equally impressed and horrified, as she swallowed most of it in one bite like a python. In a slightly strangled voice, she said, “Whoa, that’s really fucking good. Thanks, Jessie.”

Caleb tucked the books back into their holsters and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. His head throbbed, weariness finally catching up with him. “I think I will try it now.” 

“Good luck, Caleb! I’ll make sure nobody else sleeps, okay?”

Caleb smiled at Jester. “That would be good. We wouldn’t want a repeat of last night, _ja?_ ”

“ _Ja_ ,” Beau mimicked. She grinned, mouth full of pancake. He gave her a disgruntled look, and she clapped her hands twice. “Alright! Get on it, magic boy.”

Caleb glanced at Fjord and saw his own exasperation reflected back at him. “Jester wants to go shoppin’, so we’re headed out to find a bakery or somethin’.” Fjord sighed heavily. “I dunno. I’m just along for the ride.”

“I ran out of donuts, you guys.” Jester poked her head up over the back of the couch.

“And also medical supplies,” Fjord added. “But as you can tell, she’s got her priorities straight.”

Caleb turned to Jester. “I’ll see you this afternoon, then.”

“If they have cinnamon rolls, I’ll get you like, at least five.”

Caleb half-smiled. “Have fun.”

Fjord grumbled something under his breath, draining the cup of coffee. Jester grabbed his free hand, tugging him out into the hall, her tail flicking manically behind her.

Caleb returned to his desk. He listened to Beau’s tactless attempts at convincing Yasha to explore the city with her; when Yasha initially declined, Beau told her they should leave Caleb to work in peace. Settling himself in his chair, Caleb smiled to himself, shaking his head. If Beau wanted to use him as an excuse to get some time alone with Yasha, who was he to judge?

Once the rest of the party had wandered off on their various errands, Nott emerged from her blanket fort. She crept up to Caleb’s desk, folding her arms on the edge and yawning widely as she settled her chin on her forearms. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Caleb frowned at the book spread before him. “ _Ja_. Maybe. In fact, I might need you to perform part of the ritual. It is not complicated, just a bit confusing. Part of it is that you must be half asleep yourself. Once you are in that state of mind, accessing the dreams of others—especially those who are asleep or unconscious—becomes substantially easier. And—” he flipped to the page containing the verbal aspect of the ritual, “—if the caster and the scryer are both touching the cursed or enchanted object as you perform the ritual, it should work much better and last longer.”

Nott’s throat bobbed, eyes wide and nervous. “Okay. Are you sure this is safe?”

Caleb smiled coyly. “Well, I have already tested it out on Beauregard.”

Nott smiled, a flash of sharp teeth in the artfully dim lightning. She took a deep breath. “Okay, alright, I’ll do it. But if something starts to go wrong, or if I seem to be hurting you, I’m stopping immediately. No ifs or buts. Those are my terms.”

“ _Ja,_ that is fair.”

Nott pulled the divination book toward her. She put a hand on the glaive’s gleaming blade. She made a face—no matter how many times they’d scrubbed the steel, the bloodstains wouldn’t come out. Caleb laid his hand next to hers. “Whenever you are ready,” he said. 

Nott took another shaky breath. Her expression was set, determination in her yellow eyes. “Alright.” Her voice quivered like a little leaf in a storm. “Here goes nothing.”

Caleb closed his eyes. The glaive’s blade was unnaturally cold. Nott began the spell, and the cold spread up his fingers, snaking through his veins until it reached his chest. The sound of Nott’s voice blurred, fading. Behind closed lids, colors danced, violent and shapeless. The world slid away. Caleb hesitated on the edge of emptiness. And then, steeling himself, he fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I have never in my life gotten such nice comments on anything I've written??? Ever??? I am absolutely floored by y'all's kindness, and just !!!!! I would like to say the BIGGEST thank you for all the thoughtful feedback and encouragement!!! I appreciate y'all taking the time to tell me those things, like for real, I have been BLESSÉD 💖💖💖😭😭😭


	9. Part II Chapter IX: Empty and Envy

****

**CHAPTER NEIN**

****

**EMPTY AND ENVY**

Somehow, he hadn’t lost the letter. For as long as he could remember, it was the one secret he knew that Narayah didn’t, a piece of his past that he clung to like a lifeline. Once, he’d shown it to Kenith. Kenith, who had offered compassion and mercy in the face of violence and death. Kenith, a zealot ruled by kindness, who’d challenged Narayah’s cruelty in small but significant ways. 

Kenith, who he’d hurt. Who he’d killed.

_“Whoever wrote this letter,” Kenith had once said, “they really cared about you.” There was sadness in his voice. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we took that away.”_

_“Read it,” he’d said. “Tell me what it means. Please.”_

And Kenith had. A small rebellion—kindness painted on a canvas of cruelty.

Afterward, the letter became more than a lifeline. It was an obsession. The words themselves were, for the most part, meaningless. But now that he’d heard them spoken aloud, they couldn’t be unwritten. He kept them in his mind always, a mantra repeated over and over like a secret prayer.

Now, sitting alone on the edge of his bed, he pulled it out and held it in his hands. His thumbs brushed the rough, crumpled ridges of the worn paper. With his darkvision, he was able to make out the words even in the cramped, lightless room. He traced each letter with his finger, trying to picture the hands that had written them.

_If you find this,_ the letter began, _here are the things you need to know:_

_1\. Your name is Mollymauk Tealeaf, Molly to your friends._

_2\. You are not alone. Well, maybe you are physically alone, but you have people who care about you: Yasha, Jester, Fjord, Nott, Beau, and Caleb. Together we are called the Mighty Nein. If you need to reach us, send a letter to the Pillow Trove in Zadash, addressed to Jester Lavorre, or look for a man called the Gentleman. We will find you._

_3\. The coat and swords are yours. Hopefully the coat isn’t ruined, but then again, you have never minded blood._

_4\. Beau took your money and your cards. She says she is going to use the money to pay for your resurrection, but on the off chance that you manage that on your own, I don’t want you to worry._

_5\. I am running out of paper and things to say, and I know you don’t particularly like reading, so here is the long and short of it:_

_6\. You have a place with us. Always. Even if you forget everything else, remember that._

Then, at the bottom of the page, the word _sincerely_ had been crossed out and replaced with:

_Your friend,_

_Caleb Widogast_

The signature at the bottom was neat and practiced. The letters twined together, curving and elegant. These were the letters that Molly kept closest, tracing them over and over until the long-dried ink stained the tips of his fingers black.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. He tucked the letter into his shirt, carefully folding the crumpled paper and laying it over his heart. He sat on the edge of the bed until Dyran—his new handler, and the man he’d almost killed—wrenched open the door to his room.

“Time to go,” Dyran growled. He had a special talent for making everything sound like a threat. He was a big, muscular man with sharp grey eyes and an even sharper temper. “Narayah’s woken up. She’s asking to see you.”

Molly stood. He kept his expression blank, neutral. Just the way Dyran liked it. Inside, there was a fire in his chest, molten iron in his veins. _I have a name,_ he thought. _I have a name, and people who care about me. What do you have? How will you keep out the cold when the night closes in?_

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Narayah lay propped up on a bed of white silk and goose-down pillows. Her hair fell limp around her pale face. Her hands were cold, fingers numb. It was a miracle she’d survived, Dyran had told her. The blade had pierced her heart. Two centimeters to the left, and she’d have died instantly.

The Tiefling’s survival was also a miracle. He’d been unconscious for five hours, hovering on the drink of death, but according to Dyran, he’d sprung back surprisingly fast. Within hours of the incident, he was back on his feet and ready to resume his training. Narayah, who’d been saved only by the quick action of her trusted cleric and friend, Myriel, was suspicious of this quick recovery. _It must be a side-effect of the spell,_ she thought. Perhaps the necromantic magic she’d poured into Lorenzo’s glaive had endured, clinging to the Tiefling’s body like an internal shield. If this was the case, it was a serious advantage. If the Tiefling could suffer higher levels of damage without succumbing to his wounds, he could work longer. Fight harder. Be better.

Dyran knocked on the half-open door. “Lady Veltov? I’ve got him.” He shoved the Tiefling into the room, forcing him to kneel beside her bed. She noticed the Tiefling’s hands were bound painfully tight behind his back. Once, this would’ve disturbed her. Now, she felt nothing. 

“Thank you, Dyran. Guard the door.”

Dyran nodded. “Anything for you, Lady Veltov.” He flashed his charming smile and stepped out into the hall. He lingered by the door, hand on his blade, ready to act at the first sign of danger.

Narayah pushed herself into a sitting position. She slid off the bed, slipping on her boots and buckling them up to her knees. The Tiefling watched her, eyes brighter and sharper than she’d ever seen them. There was something disturbing about the power in his pupil-less gaze. His tail flicked back and forth steadily, rhythmically, like a cat contemplating a bird with a broken wing. Unsettled, Narayah looked away. She paced in a circle around him, lightning crackling in her hands—a warning she hoped he wouldn’t ignore a second time.

“You’ve forgotten your place,” Narayah said. Her heart threw itself against her ribs, anger rising. She tamped it down, clenching and unclenching her fists. The lightning spread up her arms. The air was thick with the smell of ozone. “You’ve forgotten your purpose.”

The Tiefling’s back was to her now, shoulders tense and bunched under the sleek black fabric of his operative’s suit. He shifted his wrists against the metal cuffs, cinched to their tightest setting. _He must be in pain_ , Narayah thought; if he was, he wasn’t letting it show.

Narayah completed her circle. She met his gaze, forcing herself not to flinch away from the intensity she found there. “What’s your name?” she said. A game they’d played before, a ritual that did more for Narayah than it did for the Tiefling. It was her way of confirming his ignorance—of assuring herself that his silence meant compliance.

As always, he stayed silent. Unmoving. Eyes unreadable, face a blank, emotionless mask.

Narayah glared down at him, chin up, shoulders down. “You are a shadow,” she told him. “You are a weapon. You don’t have a name. You don’t need a name.”

The Tiefling cocked his head. He stared at her unflinchingly, eyes flashing red fire. The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re right. I don’t have a name.” He smiled, showing his fangs. “I have many names.”

Narayah blinked rapidly. The power in her fingers flickered as a different kind of shock surged through her. “ _Excuse me?”_

“ _Yasha_ ,” the Tiefling said. His voice was stronger, clearer. Stormclouds in his eyes, lightning on his tongue. “ _Jester_.”

Narayah snarled. She slapped him hard across the face, leaving a mauve mark on his lavender skin. “Shut up. Shut up _now._ ”

He leaned in, fangs bared, eyes gleaming. “ _Fjord. Nott_.”

Lightning pulsed through her. She hit him again, harder this time, and sparks arced from her knuckles onto his skin. He gasped, pitching forward. He caught himself, jaw clenched, chest heaving. “ _Beau_ ,” he gasped. “ _Caleb_.”

Narayah screamed. The torches on the walls exploded, white light filling the room with a blast of furious heat. “Shut up!” The words tore up her throat. She tasted blood, iron on her tongue and lightning in her veins. “You _will_ obey me!”

“I will _not._ ” The Tiefling raised his chin. “I don’t belong to you.” He smiled, wild and vicious. His fangs were stained red, lip split, blood dripping down his chin. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Narayah didn’t have time to react. The Tiefling was on his feet in an instant, wrenching his hands free of the cuffs, his wrists dripping red. Ice crystals rose up his right arm as he scraped his claws over the open wounds. 

Narayah let out a vicious shriek. “Dyran! _Dyran!_ ”

Dyran dove across the room, sword raised and ready. The Tiefling ducked the first blow, twirling and dodging, his face set in an expression of fearless determination. His shadow-woven combat suit blended with the darkness creeping from the corners of the room; he danced with death with his fangs bared in a wild, reckless smile.

Dyran grunted, lashing out at his opponent. The Tiefling ducked, dodging to one side, and grabbed the hilt of Dyran’s shortsword. He tore it from Dyran’s grasp. Spinning it expertly around one wrist, he gained momentum before plunging the blade into Dyran’s stomach. “ _Yasha_ ,” he snarled. Dyran fell to his knees, screaming. “ _Jester._ ” The Tiefling moved in for the kill, ice-covered claws slicing open his opponent’s throat. A geyser of gore spattered across the white stone tiles. “ _Fjord._ ” Eyes bright and dark as Dyran’s lifeblood turned on Narayah, daring her to face him.

The Tiefling lunged at Narayah. “ _Nott._ ” He slashed open her arm with his claws, spinning out of range before she could retaliate. “ _Beau._ ” Shards of ice erupted from her wounds, the cold piercing her bones and freezing her blood. She cried out through clenched teeth, reaching for the energy inside of her. Lightning arced between her fingers as her hands glowed white-gold.

The Tiefling pulled the sword from Dyran’s chest. Narayah launched herself at him with a shriek. He dislodged the weapon and spun around; his strike went wide, but hers struck true. Lightning passed from her body into his, one hand on his throat and the other over his heart. 

Narayah woke up a few seconds later sprawled on the ground. Her chest burned, heart stuttering, lungs stuck together. She rolled onto her stomach, gasping, hands shaking and head spinning. 

The Tiefling stood over her. The tip of Dyran’s sword brushed her throat. “You know,” he said, “you should’ve considered this outcome before you spent all that time training me.” The front of his shirt was singed, burnt lavender skin streaked with scars showing through. The gash from Lorenzo’s glaive gleamed in the torchlight, long healed but impossible to miss: a pale ridge from his collarbone to the middle of his sternum. A testament to his demise, and his survival. 

Narayah lifted her chin with a hiss. “How did you do that? How did you turn my own spell against me?”

The Tiefling smiled. He touched the burns on his chest and neck. With the back of his hand, he wiped away the blood trickling from his nose and mouth, grimacing. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” 

With a violent shriek, Narayah seized his blade in both hands. Her back arched as the last of her power poured out through her hands, racing up the sword in a flash of blinding white. But instead of engulfing the Tiefling, stopping his heart and burning his flesh, the light flickered and died. For an instant, Narayah saw a spectral figure standing behind him, white eyes glowing, sheathed in a mantle of burning flame.

The Tiefling picked up the sword. He drew it across the back of his neck, drawing blood. Radiant light emanated from the sword. With a look that was half relief, half regret, he slashed open her throat. 

She choked, fingers slipping on her blood-slick skin. _We are all just memories,_ she thought, _moments passing like ghosts._

The last thing Narayah saw as her sight dimmed were two blood-red eyes watching her solemnly.

_And finally, the end, when all our futures fade._

She blinked, and the red eyes turned white. Light exploded around her, searing the flesh from her bones. She screamed. The blank, endless nothingness swallowed her whole.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

The light left Narayah’s eyes. Her fingers curled, hands limp, fingernails burnt and peeling. The burns on her chest and throat matched Molly’s wounds. 

_She’s dead. She’s dead._ Molly fell to all fours, his arms barely supporting him. He coughed, tasting blood. It pooled in his mouth, trickled from his nose. He raised a shaking hand to wipe it away. His vision blurred. He blinked, and next thing he knew, he was on his back, chest burning, heart beating erratically. The bare white ceiling spread above him. All he’d ever known: an endless expanse of white spattered with red.

He inhaled shakily. “ _Caleb._ ” He finished his mantra. His hands were numb. His lungs refused to work. Against his will, his eyes slid shut. The void closed in. Nameless terror filled him, and he blinked back the lightless veil. His lips moved, silently repeating the names he’d learned by heart. 

Blood bubbled in his throat. His muscles were frozen, stiff, immovable. 

_At least I took her with me,_ he thought. A small flame to ward off the coming dark. _It’s over. It’s finally fucking over._

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

The compound was empty. That's what they all thought, at least until Nott picked the lock on the back door and they entered the silent, lightless building.

"Ahhh, come on." Beau slapped a hand over her mouth and nose as a putrid, rotten-flesh smell hit her, stinging her throat and eyes. Squinting through the pitch-blackness, she motioned for the others to follow. Caleb slipped through the door, the Dancing Lights bursting into existence overhead.

The hallway was full of bodies. Blood leaked from their eyes, their noses, their mouths, lips parted and dripping red. Beau stepped back, knocking into Caleb, who stepped back and bumped into Yasha. Nott hid behind Yasha's legs, peering out nervously. 

Nott stifled a shriek. "Oh my god! This is bad. I think we should go back. Maybe we could regroup and come up with a new plan, or not come up with a plan and get as far away from this place as physically possible?"

Yasha shoved her way past the others and made for the nearest body. She used her foot to push him onto his side. His bloody eyes stared at nothing, jaw open and set in a look of panic. "This is blood magic." Her voice was low, tense. "I've seen this before."

Beau frowned. She pulled the sash off her waist, folded it over, and tied it so that it covered her mouth and nose. She followed Yasha, poking the body with one end of her quarterstaff. "Is it, y'know…?" She faded off. Hopefully Yasha would catch her meaning.

Yasha’s expression darkened. "I've seen this curse before, but he never... he couldn't do this much damage. Not by a long shot."

The door creaked open. Nott shrieked, turning around and firing a crossbow bolt at it. Fjord ducked just in time, cursing like the sailor he was. "Nott!" he yelled. "It’s just me."

Nott's voice rose a full octave. "I'm sorry! Oh fuck! I'm sorry, Fjord!"

Fjord and Jester entered together, slamming the door behind them. Fjord's hair was thick with ice crystals. Jester's hood had captured at least three solid snowballs worth of snow.

Fjord's eyebrows rose as he took in the gruesome scene. "Oh, fuck. You think Molly did this?"

Beau turned back to Yasha. Yasha noticeably flinched, shaking her head. "I don't think so. Not unless it was… not Molly, you know? In his body.”

Beau crossed her arms, doing her best not to think about that possibility. 

"We don't even know what N.V. wanted his body for." Caleb knelt by the dead man, apprehension written in the tense set of his shoulders. Jester joined him, her expression caught between curiosity and confusion.

"You're right, Caleb." Fjord sighed. "Nothing in that letter suggests he's alive."

Beau twirled her staff around, switching it from one hand to the other. "If we never get any farther than the first hallway, we'll never know." She stretched, flexing her muscles. "I'm gonna go check out some of these rooms. You guys with me or what?"

"Or what," said Nott. 

"If you want to stay here, Nott, I'll stay with you." Caleb straightened up. "However, if N.V. turns out to be a powerful spellcaster—and all signs are pointing to that—it would be better if I was there to counter her."

"I've got some solid spells," Fjord said. "And Jester's got all her spells as well. ’Long as we play this right, I think we should be fine."

"We always say that!" Nott grabbed the doorknob. Even across the distance, Beau could tell that her hands were shaking. That, along with her slurred words, made it obvious that she was drunk. "And it's _never_ true."

"She's got a point." Beau raised an eyebrow. "But I still say we go check it out. This place looks like a ghost ship. I'd bet at least ten gold we're the only ones here."

Fjord activated his Armor of Agathys. Frost crept across his armor, forming tiny crystal spikes. "I'm headin' in. Jester, you comin' or stayin'?"

"Well, technically speaking, I'm the only healer, so I should probably stay with the people who're most likely to die. I’ll go to fight the bad guys, or whatever you and Beau and Caleb are doing."

Nott pulled out her flask and took a long swig. "Fine! I'll go. But I won't enjoy it."

"That's everybody in, then? Okay, good. Splitting the party is always a shit move." Beau paused. There was a moment of silence where they all knew exactly what the others were thinking. "C'mon, let's move. N.V. isn't gonna wait around forever." 

° ° °

More bodies. Five piled in one room, throats cut, eyes gushing blood, fallen with unstained weapons in their limp hands. Beau pressed her sash to her nose, eyes watering. The smell of rotting flesh was at least two days old.

Beau had just turned back toward the main hallway when she heard a door slam—the door they'd entered through.

"Shit!" Beau exploded into the hallway. "Fuck, you guys, the door!"

Racing down the unlit hall, Beau could just make out a tall human man and a shorter man with curving horns silhouetted against the moonlight, framed by the open doorway.

"Hey! Stop, hold up!" Beau ran harder than she had in her life, but it wasn’t enough. The door closed, the outer bolt sliding into place. Screaming, she slammed her shoulder against the door. It didn't budge. She took a step back, breathing hard, shoulder throbbing from the impact. If she could strike it hard enough in just the right place, she was sure the bolt would break. She'd seen it as they came in; it hadn't looked particularly strong or thick. With a yell, Beau threw her whole weight against the door. It creaked and bowed. She slammed her fists into the wood in a flurry of blows. Staggering back, she kicked out as hard as she could with the heel of her booted foot. 

The bolt broke, taking a good chunk of wood with it. Beau didn't hesitate. She shoved the door; it fell forward, hinges broken, panels splintered. The cold air hit her. She breathed ice and exhaled smoke. 

Ahead, the two figures moved through the snow, lit by the rising moon. "Hey!" The wind swallowed Beau’s words. "Hey, stop!” Her boot sank into a deep drift; she staggered, her ankle twisting painfully. “Ow, fuck!"

Her quarry was substantially slower than her. She dragged herself out of the drift, launching herself forward, moving so fast she didn't have time to sink in again.

The human man stopped about thirty feet ahead. He pushed his companion to his knees in the snow. He whirled around and rushed at Beau. There was a flash of silver. An arrow sunk into the ground inches from her foot. She caught the second one, snapping it in half as she crossed the short distance between them. Her staff blurred, slicing through the storm. Anger sharpened her voice as it ripped out of her throat, curses rolling off her tongue like thunder.

Her first three strikes connected in a whirlwind of adrenaline-fueled fury. The Elf bowed under her blows. He covered his head, weapons falling into the snow. Beau pulled back and aimed the tip of her staff at his throat. "Who the fuck are you?"

The man bared his teeth, blood on his lips and dripping from his nose. "Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Beau's vision went black. Her blood burned, fire in her veins, a scream building in her chest. The cold barely registered as she fell to her knees in the snow. _Oh, fuck,_ she thought as her chest seized and her heart stuttered. _This might be it._

Then, through the ringing in her ears, she heard somebody scream. Not a scream of fear, but of desperation. She gasped as the burning faded. Her sight returned. Hands shaking, she wiped the blood from her eyes, her cheeks. She pushed herself upright. 

Molly stood silhouetted against the rising moon. His hair was too long, and his eyes glowed like fresh blood on new snow. His captor sprawled at his feet, eyes closed, veins standing out, black and vivid, under pale skin. Molly stepped toward Beau, one hand outstretched, and then fell to his knees. He fisted his hands in his hair, jaw clenched, eyes closed. His whole body shook; from adrenaline or cold, Beau couldn't tell. He snarled, flashing his fangs.

Beau staggered through the snow toward him. She knelt, hands hovering, unsure what to do. " _Yasha!_ " The cold poured into her throat, freezing her lungs. "Ahhhhgg, shit-fuck! Yasha, I found him!"

Molly ducked his head and began to whisper a string of blurred, meaningless words. 

"Molly." Beau's voice was rough, broken. "Hey. Hey. It's me. It's Beau."

Molly didn't respond. He continued his mantra, shaking, eyes closed, delicate snowflakes gathering in his tangled hair.

Beau leaned in. She wasn't sure if she should touch him. He didn’t seem to recognize her, and he’d just knocked out a powerful Blood Hunter using gods didn’t even know what kind of curse. She hesitated, biting her lip. She leaned in closer.

And then, amidst the muttering, she heard her own name.

" _Beau. Caleb. Yasha. Jester. Fjord. Nott. Beau. Caleb. Yasha. Jester. Fjord. Nott. Beau…_ "

Beau's eyes burned. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "Aw, fuck." She steeled herself and put a hand on Molly's shoulder. No response. She put both hands on his shoulders, shaking him. "Hey! Molly, for fuck's sake, it's me!" She didn't know if she should slap him, yell, push him over. She had no idea how to snap him out of this. Whatever _this_ was.

Footsteps in the snow. Beau turned. Her hands fell from Molly's shoulders; she tried to stand up, but her legs were numb. Snowmelt soaked into her pants, freezing her muscles.

It was Caleb and Nott. Nott held up her crossbow, eyes wide, hair falling in wet, messy streak across her face. "Beau." Caleb stopped a couple meters away. His expression was tight, guarded. For a moment, his eyes glowed blue. Then he made an urgent gesture for Beau to move aside. "The manacles.” White mist wreathed his pale face. "They're magical. Put them on him." He nodded at the fallen Blood Hunter.

Beau followed Caleb's gaze. In the snow a few feet from Molly, a pair of elegant manacles covered in dried blood and arcane symbols lay half-concealed in the billowing drifts. Beau pushed herself to her feet and dove for them. Grabbing the unconscious Blood Hunter by his ankle, she dragged him away from Molly, flipping him over and chaining his hands behind his back. The man’s eyes rolled under closed lids, expression tightening. The symbols on the cuffs glowed red.

Beau turned back to the others. "I did it," she gasped.

Caleb nodded, kneeling in front of Molly.

"Caleb..." Nott's voice shook. "I don't know if you should... I mean, what if he's dangerous? We don't know for sure if it's safe to—"

"It is alright, Nott." Caleb shot her a shaky smile. “I have experience with this sort of, uh, situation.” Taking a trembling breath, he cupped Molly's cheeks, thumbs resting on the ridges of Molly's cheekbones. "Mollymauk." His voice was low, firm. "I have been where you are now, many times. It is terrible, _ja_ , but you need to understand that it is over. You are safe." He took a deep, shuddering breath. Beau took a step toward him, ready to intervene if anything went wrong. So far, Molly had shown no sign of violence toward any of them. She frowned, leaning on her staff. _You never know when a situation might go south._

Molly was still muttering under his breath. His thin, torn black shirt clung to his narrow frame. Beau couldn't be sure, but last she checked, Molly wasn't as skinny as Caleb. Now, his body was as lithe and narrow as a maple sapling.

Caleb brushed his thumbs over Molly's cheeks in a rhythmic pattern. "Listen to my voice.” He took one of Molly's hands and spread it over his own chest, over his heart, holding it there. "We are okay now. All of us, we’re going to be okay.”

Beau wiped her face on her arm wrappings. Her whole body shook. She was cold, so cold, fingers numb and frozen. But despite that, she couldn't move away, couldn't go back to the compound only a short dash away. 

Caleb's fingers slid into Molly's too-long hair. He began to speak again, but this time it wasn't in Common. It wasn’t Zemnian, either. Beau flinched at the sharp, jagged-edged words, breath pausing in her chest. She fought the urge to cover her ears. _Infernal,_ she thought. _It has to be._ But since when did Caleb speak Infernal?

Caleb repeated the same phrase over and over. He kept a hand on Molly's cheek, lacing the other through untamed purple curls. He broke off mid-sentence, then took a deep, shaky breath. "Your name is Mollymauk Tealeaf," he whispered. Beau was just close enough to hear. "Molly to your friends. You have a family, and we are called the Mighty Nein. My name is Caleb Widogast, and this is Nott and Beauregard." He jerked his head at Nott and Beau. "Even if you’ve forgotten everything, I need you to know that you have a place with us. Always." 

Molly's mantra stopped. He inhaled, breath rattling in his lungs. He blinked rapidly, ice crystals gathering on his cheeks, tears freezing before they could fall. "Caleb," he whispered. "Caleb..." He gripped Caleb's bandaged forearms with shaking hands, ducking his head and closing his eyes. 

Caleb put his arm awkwardly around Molly. He began to murmur again, a mix of Zemnian and Infernal. Molly leaned into Caleb and Caleb let him, steady and calm even though he was shaking harder than anyone. He laid a hand on top of Molly's head, stroking his hair and whispering softly, "I promise you that it will all be okay. Maybe not right away, but we will get there. We will." 

Beau jerked upright at the sound of heavy footsteps in the snow. Yasha's cry was full of grief and relief, cracking like spring ice. Caleb moved aside as she fell to her knees in front of Molly, tears streaking her face as she shrugged off her fur mantle and wrapped it around his shoulders. "Molly.” She cupped his face, pressing her forehead to his. "Oh my gods, Molly, you're alive."

Molly seized the front of Yasha's shirt in both hands. His grip was weak, tentative. Beau wondered how long it had been since he'd eaten or slept. From his narrow frame and the dark bruises around his eyes, she guessed it had been a while.

"Come on." Yasha stood. She put an arm around Molly's shoulders, the other under the crook of his legs. He didn't fight as she hoisted him up and settled him against her chest. "He's hurt." Her breath billowed, thick and smoky white. "We need to get him to Jester, now."

Without another word, she turned and strode away across the marshmallow drifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, y'all. I'm graduating college this Saturday. Time to Be An Adult (lmao as if) and write some Actually Profitable Fiction. As if any creative writing is profitable lmaoooo
> 
> In more important news, this is the chapter where the Nein are finally 100% reunited!! The disaster children are back together, my dudes. And now it is Big Chaos Hours™. 
> 
> In even MORE important news, I need to sleep. I started a new book series and RPG game in the last week, and I have finals on top of that, and the moral of the story is that I love making poor life decisions I guess. Sleep is for the weak, but naps are for the wise. And that's enough from me! Bye y'all!


	10. Part II Chapter X: The Captive and the Curse

****

**CHAPTER TEN**

****

**THE CAPTIVE AND THE CURSE**

"It’s so big, though, Fjord! I’m sure we can all fit in it just fine. I mean, yes, it will be a little tight, but that just means we'll stay warm without having to set anything on fire. Other than the fireplace, of course. We should definitely set that on fire."

Fjord stared at Jester for a long moment. Jester stared back, trying to ignore the way her fingers stung from the cold. Fortunately, she was resistant to low temperatures, so she was doing much better than Fjord, who'd crossed his arms firmly over his chest to hide his shivering.

"Well alright, then. Guess that settles it." Fjord rubbed his hands up and down his forearms. He exhaled, blinking as a gust of icy wind buffeted his face. He raised a hand to shield his eyes. 

"You can go back and tell the others that we found a place to sleep that isn't full of like, dead bodies and stuff." Jester launched herself onto the rickety porch of the old shack, hiding from the wind behind uneven posts and a sagging overhang. 

Fjord gave her a long look. "You gonna be alright ‘til I get back?"

"I'll go inside and lock all the windows and doors so that it isn't totally freezing when you get back. And also, I have like two or three spells left, so I think I'll probably be alright, probably."

"Alright. You take care of yourself."

"You should really be more worried about yourself, because if you get lost in the woods you can't heal yourself like I can."

"That's real comfortin’, Jester. Thank you."

Jester tilted her head, faking obliviousness. "Oh, of course, Fjord! You're so welcome." 

Fjord smiled, shaking his head. "I’ve got a health potion, so don’t you waste your time worryin’, alright? You hold down the fort. I'll be back soon as I can."

° ° °

The shack was dark and full of cobwebs. Jester couldn't see spiders surviving this far north, but then again, giant frost spiders could have smaller, more resilient cousins. She thought about this as she cleared away rotting furniture, throwing most of it out into the snow. She found a couple of wool blankets in a cabinet, some old packets of herbs, and a trap door leading to a freezer room buried under the permafrost. The freezer was full of dried venison and fish, as well as a few crates of frozen fruit. On the main floor was a bed that looked relatively new, and a weathered leather couch and armchair. Jester dumped the blankets and packaged food onto the couch. Despite her resistance to cold, her hands were numb from it.

Once she'd boarded up and insulated the holes and cracks, Jester curled up on the armchair and buried her face in her hands. Her cheeks were already wet from the snow melting in her hair; hot tears joined the snowmelt as she wiped at her eyes. 

They couldn't stay at the compound where they'd found Molly. Not only because of the corpses or the blood or the blank white walls, but because, as soon as Yasha carried Molly through the doors, Molly had sliced her forearm open, blood-cursed Fjord, and made a break for the door. Beau had tackled him and cuffed him with the sleep manacles from the Sour Nest, but after Jester had finished healing everyone, they'd unanimously agreed to find another place to bed down for the night.

Jester sobbed into her sleeve for the better part of five minutes. The tension and stress of the past months poured out all at once, traumas built on traumas that she'd hidden behind playful smiles and jokes. She wrapped her arms around her legs, listening to the roaring wind until her sobs subsided and her eyes dried. She wiped her face with her sleeve, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Traveler?" she whispered. She looked up at the ceiling, searching for meaning in the shadows. "I don't know for sure that you're listening right now, because I know you have really important things to do other than watching over me, but just in case you are, please protect my friends and make sure they make it here safe. It’s really, really hard to see them hurting so much, so if you can, please just don't let any more bad things happen to them." Then, in a softer voice, she added, "I can't lose them; they're like my family now, and I..." She wiped her eyes, voice failing. "...I really don't want to be alone again. So if you can, please just keep them safe, okay?"

Outside, the storm shrieked. The shack groaned, boards bowing and creaking. There was no response, no sign that anyone was listening to her desperate words. Closing her eyes against another wave of sadness, she pressed her forehead to her bent knees and breathed in shaky, uneven gasps of frozen air. She stayed like that until Fjord knocked on the door, announcing his arrival in a slightly muffled voice. Wiping her face with her sleeve to clear away the last of the tears, she got up and unlocked the door.

"Hey, Fjord. Is everybody okay?"

Fjord pulled down the make-shift scarf covering his face and frowned. "They'll be along in a little while. I went ahead to make sure you’re doin’ alright." There was a long, heavy pause. "Are you alright? You sound sorta sick or somethin’. You feelin' okay?"

Jester summoned her most cheerful smile. “I’m okay,” she started to say, but the words died on her lips. Taking a deep breath, she hung her head. "It’s just, all these bad things keep happened to us, and I’m still having nightmares about Lorenzo and being stuck in those cages and everything. I mean, I _know_ he's dead, Yasha totally fucked him up, but I... I don't _know_ , Fjord. It's just a lot happening all at once and I don't always know how to deal with it."

Fjord put a firm, steadying hand on her shoulder. "Jester,” he said softly, “you wanna hear a secret?"

Wiping at the tears starting in her eyes, Jester nodded. "Of course I do; I love secrets."

Fjord took a deep breath. He looked away, up at the sagging edge of the porch overhang. "I still have nightmares about it, too."

Jester sniffed. She put her hand over Fjord’s, squeezing his fingers. "Thanks for telling me that, Fjord. I really think it's better not to be alone."

Fjord smiled. Not a full smile, but a rough-around-the-edges approximation. "You know you can always come to me with stuff like this, right?"

"I don’t know, maybe. But now I do for sure." Jester was distinctly aware of the warmth of Fjord's hand under her palm. "And of course you can always tell me anything you want, because I swear by the Traveler that I'll never give away any of the secrets you tell me, okay?"

Fjord's smile thawed. "It's a deal."

Jester wrapped her arms around him. She rested her forehead against his chest-plate, clutching at the back of his armor. "I'm sorry for all the bad things that've happened to you, Fjord. If I could heal people's minds like I can with their bodies, I'd heal you first.” She paused, reconsidering. "Well, okay, maybe I would heal Caleb and Molly first, but then you."

Fjord huffed. He put an arm around Jester's shoulders, his hand resting on top of her head. "We're gonna be okay," he said. "You and me, we're gonna make it. It's a hard world, and people like us have it especially hard, but the first time I ever looked at you, I just knew. Nothing in this fuckin’ world is ever gonna put out your light." His low, deep voice reverberated through Jester's body. She closed her eyes, memorizing the sound. "And I know that sounds real cheesy, but it's the only way I know how to say it that makes any kind of sense."

"You know something, Fjord?" Jester's voice shook, but she was no longer afraid to let it show. "I think you're way more romantic than Oskar. And also handsomer, and a better fighter. I’m so super, super happy that I met you, because I think you're probably the nicest and most charming man I've ever, ever met in like, ever. And my mom was always having fancy rich men over; none of them were even half as good as you."

Fjord was silent for a long moment. "That's mighty nice of you, Jester."

Before Jester could respond, Nott's high voice cut through the wailing wind. "Fjord, is it safe up there? Or do you need us to shoot anything or set it on fire?"

Jester pulled away. She smiled at Fjord through her tears, laughing shakily. "You should probably go tell Nott to come inside. I made it extra cozy and windproof and everything."

"All clear," Fjord called down to Nott, who was hovering at the edge of a copse of trees with her crossbow drawn, yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Turning back to Jester and lowering his voice, he asked, "You gonna be alright?"

Jester nodded. "Are you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I'll be just fine."

"That's really good, Fjord. But it's okay if you're not, too. I'll still like you no matter what."

Fjord smiled. As he turned to greet Nott and the rest of the party, he gave Jester a look of steady, calm gentleness. "You just remember what I told you, alright?"

Jester's voice sunk to a whisper. "Yeah, okay. I'll remember." 

She watched Fjord's back as he stepped down the rickety stairs and shuffled through the snow. She closed her eyes, listening to the soft, familiar rumble of his voice as he greeted the party. The world was often a cruel, cold place, she thought, but once you found a light in all the darkness, it was easier to feel alive.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

The book was wreathed in dark magic. The instant it registered on his magic-detecting radar, Caleb sensed its corrupted power. Now, sitting in the farthest corner of the room beside the solitary bed, he felt an almost overwhelming urge to pull it out and flip through its weathered pages. He resisted, hands clenched in his lap, shivering despite the fire Jester and Beau had managed to light in the crumbling stone fireplace. Whatever the book was, he wasn't ready to share it. Not yet. Not until he had a better idea of its content and purpose. 

Nott and Jester sat together on the couch. Jester was trying to explain a particularly complicated game of cards to Nott. Caleb could tell that neither of their hearts were in it, but at least it seemed a welcome distraction from the sadness and tension that had followed the party ever since the events at the Sour Nest.

Yasha and Fjord were out hunting. Jester had offered to join them, then decided against it when Yasah reminded her that Molly might still need healing when he woke up. Fjord had promised to go with Jester to look for firewood after the hunt, which seemed to have appeased her slightly.

"I'll be extra careful, Jes," Fjord had promised. "And besides, I've got Yasha with me. The odds of anything out here gettin' the best of her are around zero."

Half an hour had passed since Fjord and Yasha had set out. Yasha had taken her greatsword; Caleb had the feeling she needed to take her anger out while they waited for Molly to wake up. They’d taken the enchanted manacles off hours before, but he was still unconscious. Unless he’d suffered some sort of damage that Jester’s healing magic couldn’t fix, he should have woken up the moment the cuffs were off. Caleb tried his best not to think about. 

Caleb clasped his hands painfully tight, focusing on his breathing. Molly lay on the bed beside him, limbs splayed, eyes closed. Caleb swallowed the lump in his throat. Molly had died with his eyes open. No chance to pretend he was unconscious, just a violent, bloody end followed by a relentless soul-deep ache.

Molly murmured something in his sleep. His lips parted, mouthing soundlessly. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. His nose began to bleed, streaks of red like slashes on his lavender skin. 

Caleb's whole body lit up with adrenaline. He crawled onto the bed and leaned over Molly, hands hovering helplessly. "Jester!" His voice was harsh and ragged even to his own ears. "He is bleeding again."

Jester was off the couch and on the bed in an instant. "Oh, Molly," she whispered. Pulling out her healer's kit, she extracted a clean cloth and a little vial of clear, strong-smelling alcohol. She forced the bottle and cloth into Caleb's hands. "Hold the cloth over his nose until it stops bleeding." She lifted Molly’s head and stuck a pillow under his neck. "When I'm done healing him, you need to clean off the blood, because if he wakes up, he can't be freaked out, okay?"

Caleb nodded. He poured the alcohol onto the cloth as Jester gently pulled down Molly's jaw, peering into his mouth and throat. "Is he going to be alright?" Caleb's voice shook as much as the rest of him, and not entirely from the cold.

Jester nodded. She let out a loud, relieved sigh. "He's okay, it's okay, I think he just bit his tongue, is all. His fangs are too sharp and he probably just did it in his sleep." She bared her own fangs, running her tongue over them before sticking it out at Caleb. "See? I don't know if tongues can have scars on them, but if they can then I probably have a lot."

Caleb half-smiled. He pressed the cloth to Molly's nose. "That’s good to hear. And the nosebleed?"

Jester frowned. "I really don't know about that, but it probably has something to do with that curse he did. I mean, Beau says he took out that reaaaally powerful Blood Hunter guy—" she gestured toward the trapdoor leading to the freezer, where they were currently keeping their prisoner, bound and chained and guarded by Beau, "—without any weapons or anything."

Caleb ran a hand through his hair. He sighed. " _Ja_ , you're probably right about that. Mollymauk’s abilities always have a physical price; the toll of conducting such a powerful blood curse could easily have done more damage than what we can see externally."

Jester bit her lip, fiddling with the holy symbol on her belt. "Maybe I should try healing him again? I still have a couple of spells left, and we're going to rest pretty soon, so it wouldn't be that bad of an idea, right?"

Caleb nodded. He kept the cloth over Molly's nose as Jester laid her hands on Molly's chest, closing her eyes and muttering a prayer to the Traveler. Bright light emanated from her fingers, spreading over Molly's body like a radiant mantle. 

Jester pulled away. "There," she said. "He should be totally fine now." Caleb noted the tension woven through her upbeat tone. There was a moment of silence. Molly's breathing slowed, evening out as he noticeably relaxed. Jester exhaled loudly, relief clear on her face. "Could you wash off his face and everything so I can go tell Nott about the rest of the game we're playing? She was just starting to get it."

"No, I wasn't," said Nott. Caleb glanced over. Nott was curled in one corner of the couch, hood up and eyes glowing in the faint firelight. 

Jester took Molly's hand and squeezed it, a sad smile on her face. She crawled off the bed and returned to the couch. "Oh, and Caleb, before I forget: there's more blankets and pillows over here behind the couch if you need them or anything."

"Thank you, Jester."

"You're so welcome, Caleb." Jester smiled at him over the back of the couch before turning back to her cards and explanations. 

Caleb sat in silence for a long moment. Then he removed the cloth from Molly's face and poured the rest of the alcohol onto it. Thankfully, the nosebleed seemed to have stopped. The bloody stains, already drying on Molly's lips and cheeks, remained. Caleb cupped Molly's cheek, stabilizing his head as he drew the damp cloth across his face. The blood soaked into the white cloth. Molly didn't react, motionless and silent on the old, straw-stuffed mattress. Caleb’s throat constricted, a familiar dead weight settling in his chest.

What if, after all they'd done to get him back, Molly never woke up? What if he'd spent the last of his strength saving Beau from the Blood Hunter's curse?

Caleb closed his eyes. He hunched in on himself, hands shaking too hard to hold the cloth. He dropped it onto the bed and clenched his hands in his lap. Would it break Beau to know Molly had sacrificed himself for her twice? To live with the guilt and the anger at having that choice taken away from her?

_No,_ he thought, _there is no need for that kind of thinking._ He reached for Molly’s hand. He held it tight, as if his touch alone could keep Molly in the world of the living.

° ° °

An hour later, Yasha and Fjord returned with a single scrawny rabbit and a handful of herbs. “C’mon, Jes.” Fjord put a hand on Jester’s shoulder. “Fire’s dyin’. We should go get some more wood before night comes.”

The door opened and shut. A gust of cold air entered the room; Caleb adjusted the blankets on the bed, wrapping his coat around himself. Yasha smiled at him across the room, then took Jester’s place on the couch, staring into the dying fire.

A few minutes later, Beau emerged from the cellar, cursing as she pushed open the rickety, splintery trapdoor. "Hey, Caleb." She jerked her chin at Molly. "He doin' alright?"

Caleb frowned. He shook his head. "He started bleeding again. Jester says he bit his tongue."

Beau's expression darkened. "But nothing serious, right?"

Caleb shrugged. "I think these are better questions for Jester, _ja_?"

"Nah. She looks busy." A beat of silence, and then: "The guy in the basement is waking up. He keeps muttering something over and over, like a total psycho creep. Something about a ritual and a spellcaster and a book."

Dread settled in the pit of Caleb's stomach. He'd found the book just outside the compound, half-buried in snow. If it wasn't for his Detect Magic spell, he would've walked right past it. The Blood Hunter who’d tried to kidnap Molly must've dropped it as he fled from Beau. Whatever it was, it was connected to all this. Possibly even the reason for it.

It was all beginning to come together. The spellcaster from Rexxendrum. The tome she'd taken as compensation for conducting a secret ritual, the ritual that had killed Lucien and given birth to Molly... 

"Caleb. Hey, Caleb. You still with me?" Beau clapped her hands, earning a startled look from both Jester and Nott. Caleb's head jerked up and he drew a long, shaky breath. He felt three pairs of concerned eyes on him. 

"Caleb, are you...?" Nott began to rise from the couch, but Caleb waved it off.

" _Nein_ , Nott. I'm alright. Just a momentary lapse in concentration, that's all." He forced a shaky half-smile. 

Nott frowned, looking suspicious. "Alright. But if you need anything, or want to talk..."

Caleb's smile softened. "Thank you, Nott. If anything is wrong, you'll be the first to know."

Nott blinked. She nodded, then turned back to the cards spread on the little three-legged table between the couch and the fire. Caleb noted the tense set of her shoulders, the way her fingers twiddled nervously with the torn hem of her traveling cloak. He stifled a sigh. With everything else going on, the last thing he wanted was to make Nott's life harder.

"So, you gonna come decode this guy's crazy magic-talk or what?" Beau raised her eyebrows at him. "You're a wizard; you'll have an easier time getting stuff outta him than I will."

Slowly, Caleb nodded. He slid off the bed and onto his feet. He picked up the white cloth and wiped the blood off his hands. "Will you stay with Mollymauk while I'm away?"

"If he tries anything, I'll handle it." Beau pushed the trap door all the way back and climbed the last foot up the ladder onto the rickety wooden floorboards. She shivered, stretching and eyeing the fire. "Gods, it's like a thousand degrees warmer up here."

Caleb crouched down, staring into the dark hole. "Well, you were just in a freezer."

Beau rubbed her hands over her bare upper arms. "You got me there." She draped herself over the back of the couch, folding her arms and resting her chin on them. "Hey Nott, Jester. How much to buy in?"

Caleb turned and climbed down the ladder. It creaked and groaned underfoot, a few of the bars dangling splintered from rusted nails. 

Beau had left a single torch burning in an ancient, rusted brazier at the center of the room. Its dull orange light cast spidery shadows on the dirt walls and floor. Caleb reached the bottom of the ladder and paused. He kept a hand on the ladder, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. 

The captive was tied to a support beam at the far end of the freezer room. His hands were manacled behind his back. The runes chiseled in the iron cuffs pulsed red. Where they touched his skin, the veins of the Blood Hunter’s arms glowed with an unnatural scarlet hue. He seemed conscious but dazed, head hanging and long dark hair falling across his pale, blood-smeared face. Under his breath, he was murmuring in a soft, accented voice: "The book… the devil… the damned..." He drew a sharp, shuddering breath. His voice faded off. He stared at the floor, eyes blank and cold.

Cautiously, Caleb approached. A shard of glass broke under the heel of his boot; the Blood Hunter jerked his head up, dull eyes suddenly bright and aware. Caleb summoned the fire in his hand, a fireball glowing at the tips of his fingers. He stopped a few feet from the captive. "You said something about a book." He pulled his coat tighter around himself. The book’s leather-bound spine dug into his ribs. "And a devil. What are you talking about?"

The Blood Hunter bared his teeth in a vicious smile. "The woman with the staff," he hissed. “The one you were talking to upstairs. She’ll die within the day if you don’t let me go. The curse I put on her is too strong for anyone in your party to break.”

Flames flickered at Caleb’s fingertips. He fought the wave of anger that shot through him like an arrow to the chest, seizing his heart and taking his breath away. "And what if I kill you?"

The captive shrugged. "I'm not afraid of death. I walk that line every day. When death comes for me, I'll welcome it." He leaned forward, straining against his cuffs. The runes glowed brighter as blood seeped from the scrapes on his wrists. "Let me live, and I'll let her live. A quid pro quo, as it were." He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to one side. His green eyes glowed in the torchlight. "What do you say, friend?"

"I am not your friend." Caleb injected disdain into each syllable. 

A beat of tense silence. 

The captive sighed. "Fine. Have it your way. But it'll hurt, to bury her. To bury her in the snow, knowing that when the spring comes her body will thaw and become a feast for wolves and crows.”

Caleb couldn't hide the shiver that ran through him. His hands clenched. The torch burned higher for a moment, highlighting the captive’s narrowed, merciless gaze. Through clenched teeth, Caleb said, "I didn't say I would refuse your deal. Just that we are not, under any circumstances, to be considered friends."

The captive chuckled. "Oh, you're so dramatic. You're Caleb, right?" Caleb didn't answer. The captive grinned. "That's what I thought. Well, I see why Lucien would like you. He always did have a flare for the dramatic."

Caleb blinked rapidly. He inhaled, exhaled. The torch flickered, burning low and then flaring high. Ash on his tongue, smoke in his eyes. “What did he say? What did he tell you about me?” What he didn’t say was, _What does he remember?_

The captive laughed, shaking his head. "It'll take more than a pair of magic manacles to stop me. I'm more powerful than you can imagine." A pause. "And so is Lucien. Lucien was stronger than all of us. And now..." He trailed off with a sigh. "That fucking spellcaster. I knew we couldn't trust her. She saw all that power and wanted to harness it for herself. To use him as a pawn in her stupid, selfish personal war. If only she'd known what’s at stake, she would have left all of this alone."

Almost against his will, Caleb took a step closer. "And what was it? The ritual? Why did you need the spellcaster and the book?"

The captive blinked one eye and then the other, never letting his gaze fully stray from Caleb's face. "That book contains secrets no one in this realm should know."

“What secrets?”

“What does it matter? This doesn’t have to do with you.”

“The spellcaster, N.V. What did she want with Mol—Lucien?”

“She wanted to make a weapon out of him. He hired her to perform a ritual, and she betrayed him. He wasn’t meant to die. Not like that.”

“What was meant to happen?”

The captive blinked. “Hmm. I don’t really feel like telling you. At least not while my wrists are chained behind my back.”

Caleb took another step forward. The caged fire flickered around him, dancing golden light on dirty walls. “Why did you cuff Molly? You claim to know him from… before. If you are on the same side, why did you need him restrained?”

The captive laughed. “He’s crazy. He’s got no memories and enough power to wipe out a legion of devils. Do you think I was going to risk letting him out into the world for the first time on his own? Without something to keep him from ripping me apart the second I touched him?”

The room was tight, smoky, cold. Caleb clenched and unclenched his fists. Under his arm, the book pressed into his skin. “Those manacles keep your abilities from surfacing. Is that true?”

The captive nodded. “True.”

“And the curse you put on Beau?”

“Reversible. Unfortunately, not when my hands are magically chained behind my back. I need my _abilities_ , as you put it, to undo what I’ve done.”

Caleb’s hands shook. He knew it was a bad idea. He couldn’t be sure that the captive was telling him the truth. However, he also couldn’t risk Beau’s life. But if he let the captive go, wouldn’t he be risking _everyone’s_ lives?

Upstairs, he heard Beau swear loudly. Then there was a _thud_ , followed by Yasha calling Beau’s name. Her voice was low, desperate, confused. “Beau! _Beau!_ Can you hear me? Please, say something so I know you’re alive!”

Caleb’s heart went cold. He turned on the captive with fire in his eyes. “You will _fix her_ ,” he said through gritted teeth. Moving around behind the prisoner, he bent down and undid the manacles with shaking fingers. The chains fell away in his hands. The symbols stopped glowing.

The captive was up and running before Caleb had time to react. He climbed the ladder and pushed past the trap door, disappearing into the living room above. Caleb followed close behind, heart pounding against his ribs, cold sweat breaking out across his body.

Upstairs, Yasha was cradling Beau in her arms. Beau’s eyes were shut, blood trickling from beneath her lashes and running from her parted lips and nose. Yasha was saying Beau’s name over and over, a desperate, wild mantra. Behind her, Nott stood staring wide-eyed and horrified at Beau’s bloody, slack face.

The captive, who had paused at the top of the ladder, moved out of Caleb’s way as he emerged. “Lay her on the floor,” he commanded. 

Yasha looked up, multi-colored eyes wild and full of fury. “You! What did you fucking do to her?” She held Beau against her chest. 

Caleb put his hands out in a placating gesture, getting between the Blood Hunter and Yasha, both of whom looked ready to fight at a moment’s notice. “Stop! Yasha, I can explain. But first, you have to let him heal her. It’s a curse—he’s the only one who can break it. If you kill him, Beau dies.”

Yasha snarled, showing all her teeth like a wild animal. “He’s lying to you.”

Nott nodded. She was half-hiding behind Yasha, eyes wide and hood up. “Caleb, whatever he told you, you can’t trust it. He was kidnapping Molly! He cursed Beau!”

The Blood Hunter glared at Yasha, then at Nott. “Listen. My name is Otis of Rexxendrum, and I worked with Lucien—your Molly—before he ever knew any of you. I came here to save him from the spellcaster; I only had him chained because I wasn’t sure what he remembered, or what he might do. His abilities are too dangerous. I had to restrain him.” In the dim firelight, Otis’s eyes flashed, full of intensity and power. “You can believe me or not, but if you don’t let me fix her soon, she’ll die.”

Yasha didn’t take her eyes off Otis the entire time. She gently lay Beau on the floor, cradling her head in her lap, a hand on either side of her neck, supporting her. Otis approached nervously, hands out in a show of friendliness. He crouched beside Beau and hovered his hands over her chest. He closed his eyes. There was a flash of red energy between his fingertips and Beau’s chest, and then, with a gasp, Beau sat straight up, slamming her forehead into Otis’s. She cursed as Yasha pulled her back and Otis sprawled, eyes wide and expression stunned, on the rickety wooden floor.

Caleb let out his breath. Nott moved to stand next to him, her little body pressed close to his. “Caleb, are you alright?”

Caleb frowned, unable to take his eyes off Beau as she regained her feet, wiping blood out of her eyes. “I think so, _ja_.” His voice was soft, low. He swallowed hard. “As long as Beau’s okay, I should be.”

Otis stood up. He took a few steps toward the door, then paused, eyes darting from Yasha and Beau to Caleb and Nott. Finally, his gaze settled on Molly, lying silent and still on the bed. “He hasn’t woken up?”

Beau glared. “Yeah, he hasn’t. You wanna explain why the fuck that is?” She went for her staff, which was leaning against the couch, but Yasha stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. 

“If you’ve done something to Molly,” Yasha said calmly, “I’ll end you.”

Otis sighed. “I didn’t do anything to Lucien. Molly. Whatever. I used to work with him; I’ve said that.” A beat of tense silence. “Hold up, weren’t there more of you? I swear you had seven in your little group, not five.”

Nott looked up, blinking as if just coming out of a deep sleep. In a high, quavering voice, she said, “Where are Fjord and Jester?”

“Out getting firewood.” Beau didn’t take her eyes off Otis. She gripped her staff tight in one hand, still wiping at her bloodstained lips with the other. “Said they’d be back in a couple hours.”

A little of the tension bled out of the room. Otis sighed again. “Listen. I just want my book back.”

Nott glanced up at Caleb. “Your book?”

Caleb tried to ignore the accusation in Nott’s eyes as he said, “You said that you lost it. In that case, it’s likely still back at the compound. If the spellcaster was using it there, I don’t see any reason for her to have moved it.”

Otis crossed his arms over his chest. “I need it to reverse whatever Narayah—the spellcaster, that is—did to Lucien’s mind. If I can get his memories back, everything should work out for everyone.”

“I know a ritual.” The lie burned on Caleb’s tongue. His friends looked at him with a mixture of shock and accusation. He swallowed hard. “I didn’t have enough strength or spells to attempt it earlier. But now that I’ve rested, I think… well, maybe I can do it.”

Otis raised his eyebrows. “You a caster?”

Caleb nodded. 

“Powerful?”

Another nod.

“Good. Okay. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Caleb swallowed again. “Ahh, yes, of course I do. I would not have offered if I didn’t.”

Otis smiled. He spread his hands and grinned. “Well, friend. What are we waiting for?”

“ _Ja,_ okay.” Caleb turned toward the corner where he’d stashed his spellbooks—the spellbooks that he usually carried in the book holster where the ritual book now resided. “Just give me a moment to find the right materials.”

Nott followed him, as he knew she would. “Let me help.” She knelt down by his satchel, digging through it. “I know you left some incense in here somewhere….” Her voice faded to a whisper. “Caleb, you don’t know a spell like that. What’re you doing?”

Caleb turned his head so Otis couldn’t read his lips across the room. He ducked his head, auburn hair falling around his face. “ _Nein_ , I don’t know any spell like that. But if I can convince him that it’s failed, he will assume that Mollymauk—or Lucien, whoever—is a lost cause. Then he will leave us in peace.”

Nott frowned. “I… is that a good idea? What if he can actually help us?”

Caleb shook his head. “I don’t know who he is, or what he wants from Mollymauk, but until we do, it’s safer to send him away.” A loaded pause. “He is looking for some sort of a book. A ritual book that contains knowledge no one should ever obtain. Dark rituals, possibly necromantic in nature. At least that’s what he told me, and what I could deduce from what he didn’t tell me.”

Nott was quiet for a long moment. She found the incense and set it aside, then continued digging through the empty bag. “Be careful, Caleb. We don’t know what he’s capable of, and if he finds out you’re tricking him…”

“I know, I know. I’ll be careful, I promise you.” 

“Pinky promise?”

Caleb smiled at Nott’s ironic tone. “Pinky promise.”

Together, they straightened up and walked back across the room toward Molly’s bed, incense in hand. “I’m ready,” Caleb told Otis. “In an hour we’ll know if his memories can be restored.”

Otis’s eyes flashed fire. “And if not?”

Caleb shrugged. “Then he starts over again. He has already done it once; he can do it again.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Yes, let’s,” Nott echoed, voice unusually high and tense. “Caleb? Are you ready?”

Caleb nodded. A secret, silent message flashed between them: _Make it convincing._

Caleb lit the incense, and the ritual began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's officially summer (by which I mean my classes are over), and that means I now have to Be A Real Adult!! Oh boy! As if. In reality, I'll probably just keep writing and editing CritRole fanfic, working on cosplay, and generally being a nuisance to everybody I know.
> 
> Again, I just wanna say thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's given me feedback (of any and all kinds) on this story!! I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: Critters are the greatest people alive and I Love You All. <3 <3 <3


	11. Part II Chapter XI: The Confession

****

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

****

**THE CONFESSION**

The snow fell in flurries around Jester’s cloaked form. She bowed her head, fighting her way through snowdrifts as high as her waist. Fjord walked behind her, falchion in hand, as she broke a fresh trail through the new snow.

“We should be headin’ back soon.” 

Jester turned. Fjord had paused, breath billowing, blinking against the biting wind. “But we haven’t even found any good wood yet,” Jester said. “If the fire goes out, we’ll all freeze to death, probably.”

Fjord sighed. He rubbed his hand over his face. “I know. You’re right. It’s just this feeling I’ve got.”

“What kind of feeling?”

Fjord paused. Jester took a step back toward him, confused and a bit worried by the conflicted expression on his face. “A feelin’ like something bad’s about to happen.”

Jester tipped her head, considering. “Well, if you want to go back, I can keep looking for wood. Or I can go back, since I’m technically kind of technically the healer, and you can get the wood.”

Fjord crossed his arms over his chest. The falchion glinted in the frozen half-light of a dull, distant moon peering wearily between snow-laden clouds. “We’ve been gone at least four hours. They’re gonna worry if we don’t get back soon.” A beat of silence. Fjord sighed, running a hand through the thick, dark hair at the top of his head. “Ten more minutes. I’ll keep lookin’ for ten more minutes, then we’ve gotta head back. Deal?”

Jester gave an exaggerated sigh. “Alriiiight, Fjord. Deal. But you have to look _reaaally_ hard for the next ten minutes.”

Fjord half-smiled. “Alright. I can do that.”

° ° °

The little forest came out of nowhere. They’d been walking across barren, treeless planes for so long that Jester nearly ran into the first tree rising up out of the snow-thick landscape; like a ghost cloaked in an icy raiment, the short, stunted branches reached for her with spiky fingers. Jester stopped dead, her story about a lecherous noble she’d once tricked into burning his own clothes fading off mid-sentence. 

“Fjord!” Jester turned around. She stopped dead, heart pounding. The path behind her was empty. “Fjord? Fjord!” No response. Heart in her throat and pulse pounding in her ears, Jester plunged back down the path in the direction she’d come from.

She made it fifteen feet before falling into a pit. The ground gave way way, ancient, rotten boards bowing and breaking under her weight. She fell for a full second before striking the frozen, packed-dirt bottom. Half of her landed in the dirty. The rest of her landed on a familiar armored body.

Fjord groaned aloud. Jester rolled off him at once, crying out as her right leg seized painfully. Her leg was definitely broken, as was her left wrist and a few ribs. She lay on the cold, hard ground for a moment, blinking and panting as she realigned herself with reality. Once she’d shaken off the initial shock, she crawled back to Fjord’s side, stretching out in the most comfortable position given her injuries. 

“Jes.” Fjord’s voice was tight, thick. He’d fallen on his face, head tilted awkwardly to one side, face pressed into the dirt. Jester put a hand on his shoulder, carefully rolling him over. With her darkvision, she easily made out the deep abrasions on his cheeks and nose, and the blood dripping out of his open mouth. His eyes were closed, breath coming in labored, shallow bursts.

“Oh, _Fjord._ ” Jester covered her mouth with her unbroken hand. Tears welled in her eyes, clinging to her lashes. “Oh my _gods_ , I’m so glad I saved all my spells. You’d be in such big trouble if I hadn’t.”

Fjord’s eyes opened. They were glazed, unfocused. He blinked a few times, expression tight with pain. “Jester?”

Jester put her good hand on his cheek, stabilizing his head. Wincing and biting back another cry of pain, she used her bad hand to undo the straps on his chest-plate, pushing it aside. She spread her fingers over his chest, trying to ignore the unnatural dips and bulges of broken ribs. “I’m going to heal you, okay?”

Fjord coughed. Blood flecked his lips, dripping down his cheek. His eyes slid closed again. “Ahhhh. Yeah.” He swallowed, grimacing. “That sounds real good, Jester.”

Jester closed her eyes. She summoned her strength, fighting past her pain, and reached out to the Traveler. _Please help me heal him. Don’t let him die because of me._ Under her hands, Fjord’s muscles stiffened. His chest stopped rising. He exhaled, blood bubbling in his throat, and then went still. _NO!_

Jester’s eyes flew open. Adrenaline and power shot through her, her body glowing with radiant light. “Fjord! _Fjord_ , no! If you die right now, I will draw dicks all over your face and probably also on your gravestone, and I really, really mean that! I know you would hate that _sooo_ much, so you should probably just wake up and make sure that never ever happens, okay?” Her voice shook. She closed her eyes again, focusing hard. Tears streaked down her cheeks and froze to her skin.

Fjord sat up with a gasp. His head hit Jester’s shoulder, his hair brushing the underside of her chin. He shook hard as she wrapped her arms around him, momentarily too relieved to care about the pain in her wrist and chest. She put her good hand on the back of his head, holding him against her for a long moment as he regained his breath and composure. “Fjord?” she whispered. “Are you okay now? I don’t know how much good I could really do with that spell, but at least you’re not _dying_ anymore.”

Fjord leaned back. He sat up fully, folding his knees under him and kneeling in front of her. He put both hands on her shoulder, his face close to hers, golden eyes full of concern. “Jes, you’re bleedin’ pretty bad there.” He touched her forehead, then her cheek. Jester blinked, wincing as the pain of the cuts and scrapes finally registered. Fjord pulled back his hand, frowning. “I think I’m alright. At least I’m not dyin’, like you said.” A pause. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

Even as the deliriousness of half-consciousness wrapped around her like a sodden blanket, Jester managed to feel hurt by Fjord’s words. “You don’t think I’m hot?”

She didn’t realize she was falling back until Fjord caught her by the shoulders, holding her upright. “Jes. _Jester._ Are. You. Hurt?”

She opened her mouth, but words wouldn’t come. Her eyes closed against her will. “Fjord…” she whispered. She tasted blood. Her chest was heavy, breathing difficult, her hand hanging limp and useless from her broken wrist. She’d used up all her healing on Fjord; she was empty, tired, tired, _tired…_

There were gentle, calloused hands on her face, tilting her chin up, and then hot, healing warmth slid over her tongue and down her throat. Relief washed over her. The pain in her ribs lessened. Her broken bones knitted back together, fading to a dull, distant ache. She blinked back to consciousness, taking a deep, shuddering breath. 

Fjord dropped the empty healing potion. It hit the ground with a solid _thunk_ , rolling away across the ice-crusted dirt. Fjord took her by the shoulders and shook her gently, the relief in his eyes warring with fear. “Jester? You with me?”

Jester smiled, still loopy and weak and a bit delirious. “Always.”

Even in the dark, greyscale room, Jester noticed the deeper green blush rising in Fjord’s cheeks. He ducked his head, sighing heavily. He kept his hands on her shoulders, holding her upright as if afraid she’d fall if he let go. When his head came up, he met her gaze directly, golden eyes burning in the darkness. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Jester frowned. “Do what? Save your life? Because I thought I was supposed to be the healer, Fjord, and that’s what—”

“Don’t put my life above your own.” Fjord swallowed hard. Jester’s gaze was drawn to his lips, the curve of his throat, the sharp line of his jaw. “I can’t… that’s not…” He made a sharp, frustrated sound. “Don’t make me lose you. You gotta promise to take care of yourself first, alright?”

Jester grabbed his wrists, pulling herself fully upright. Her head spun, vision blurring, but she shook it off and focused on Fjord. “No, _not_ alright. I can’t lose you either, Fjord, because…”

“Because what?”

“Because I think I might kind of maybe be in love with you.”

Fjord’s face went blank. His eyes were wide, mouth hanging slightly open, hands tensing on Jester’s shoulders. He blinked rapidly, looking completely at a loss for words. 

Jester ducked her head, staring at the inch of ground between their knees. “It’s totally okay if you don’t feel the same way about me.” Her throat was tight, voice traitorously shaky. “I know I can be a lot, and that some people aren’t really into people that look like me, but—" 

Fjord shook his head viciously, cutting her off. “No. _No._ Jester. It’s not that. I like you. I like you a lot. It’s just…” He faded off. Putting a hand over his face, he pinched the bridge of his nose, expression pained, eyes closed. “You don’t _know_ me. There’re too many things I haven’t told you yet—too many parts of me I’ve kept hidden—to allow you to make this mistake.”

“Loving you isn’t a mistake, Fjord.” Jester set her jaw to keep her voice from shaking. “And I don’t care about some stupid secrets you’re keeping. And I _really_ don’t care about what you’ve done in the past, unless you want me to care, because I love the Fjord you are now, not the Fjord you used to be.”

There was a long, heavy silence. Fjord refused to look her in the eye, a muscle in his jaw ticking and the veins in his neck standing out. He exhaled slowly, fog wreathing his handsome face like a veil. He closed his eyes, chin falling against his chest for a moment, and then looked up at Jester. His expression was carefully blank, closed-off and mask-like. “This isn’t the time or the place.” His hands fell from her shoulders. He pushed himself upright, holding out a hand to help her up. “You’re hurt, and I’m still hurtin’, and we’ve got at least an hour’s walk back to the shack. Assuming we don’t lose the trail after all this new snowfall.”

Jester stared at his hand, blinking against the prickling of tears. She hurt everywhere—mind, body, soul. Wrapping her injured arm around herself, she reached out and took Fjord’s hand in hers. He pulled her up, putting an arm around her shoulders to stabilize her. She ducked away, gritting her teeth to suppress a cry as her newly healed leg spasmed with pain. “It’s okay, Fjord; I can walk by myself.”

As she limped across the bottom of the pit (which, now that she got a better look at it, had likely been a deep-water well once), she felt Fjord’s golden gaze on her back. She glanced back and caught a candid glimpse of his expression. Regret, disappointment, and pain slid across his features in rapid succession. His shoulders were down, head bowed slightly, arms folded over his unarmored chest. He saw Jester looking and quickly glanced away, bending down to retrieve his chest plate.

“There’s a ladder over here that should probably get us out.” Jester tested the first rungs. To her relief, they held fast. “I’m going to climb up first, and if I don’t die, then you can come after me.”

“Wait, Jester—” Fjord began, but Jester was already climbing, head tilted back, eyes fixed on the distant beams of light slanting through broken boards. She reached the top and pulled herself out onto the snow. Shaking hard, she pressed her palms against her eyes, wiping away the last of the tears. It was stupid, she thought. Love was stupid and painful and not at all worth it.

Maybe the Traveler was right. Maybe she was better off on her own.

By the time she heard Fjord emerge from the pit, calling her name, Jester was already several dozen meters ahead, retracing the trail they’d forged together through the billowing drifts of fresh-fallen snow.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Yasha’s heart beat hard and fast as Caleb closed his eyes and knelt beside Molly on the bed. Caleb put his hands on Molly’s chest, bowing his head and muttering incomprehensibly under his breath. Nott sat beside him, sprinkling bits of herbs and incense around Molly’s head, her wide yellow eyes glowing in the dimness. Caleb stayed there for at least ten minutes before opening his eyes and regaining his feet. He leaned over Molly, pulling the blankets up to cover the singed black fabric spanning Molly’s chest. Nott stepped down beside him, her gaze fixed intently on Caleb’s expressionless face.

Beau, standing tense and alert at Yasha’s elbow, crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. “So what, did it work?”

Otis stood at Yasha’s other elbow, his back to the fire. His eyes flashed green fire. He leaned in as Caleb turned to face them.

Caleb sighed, shaking his head. Yasha’s heart sank like a rock. “His memories are gone. His mind is empty. Whatever the spellcaster did, she erased it all entirely.”

Beau groaned. Yasha closed her eyes, taking a moment to collect herself. Otis hissed, slamming one fist down on the back of the couch. It tipped back and groaned. Yasha’s eyes snapped open again. 

Otis took an aggressive step toward Caleb, hands clenched. “Are you _sure_. There’s no way to bring any of it back?” 

Caleb swallowed, looking apprehensive. Yasha stepped between them, one hand rising to grip the hilt of her greatsword. Beau uncrossed her arms and stepped up next to Yasha. They stared down Otis together, hands on their weapons in silent warning.

“You heard what he said!” Nott’s voice was high and indignant. “Caleb wouldn’t lie about this stuff. He’s the best at magic; if he says we can’t bring his memories back, then we can’t, and that’s the end of it.”

Otis exhaled sharply. He swore long and loud in a language Yasha didn’t understand. He passed a hand over his face, momentarily closing his eyes. Then he shook his head and sighed. “I guess that’s it, then.” He turned and headed for the door. He stopped, hand on the doorknob, looking back at them over his shoulder. “Are you going to let me go, or should I crawl back into that atrocious, dirty freezer and tie myself back up?”

Yasha and Beau exchanged a loaded look. “Nah.” Beau waved him off. “You do what you want, man. No point in keeping a prisoner who doesn’t know shit.”

Otis cocked an eyebrow. “Hmm. Well, I do know quite a lot about certain things.” His dark eyes shifted to Molly. Then he shook himself, wrenching the door open. Wind whipped around him, blowing his long, light hair into his pale face. “But if he’s lost his memories for good, that doesn’t matter.” Another brief pause as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. His eyes flickered up to meet Yasha’s. “If he does remember,” he said with a humorless half-smile, “you can find me in Rexxentrum at the Smiling Fish inn. Room nine.”

Yasha refused to break eye-contact until he did. “If we need you,” she said in a steady, flat voice, “we’ll find you wherever you are.”

Otis blinked, then glanced away. His eyes passed over Caleb and Nott, Beau and Yasha, before settling on Molly again. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Goodbye, then. And good luck.” He wrenched the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the storm. His cloak swirled behind him, his hair a flash of gold in the brief moonlight.

° ° °

“Caleb, what the fuck,” said Beau. “I _know_ you don’t have a spell that could do what you just said you did.”

Yasha found herself kneeling beside Molly’s bed, hands folded on the thick, heavy blankets draped over his unmoving body. There was a ringing in her ears, an iron taste on her tongue. It took her a moment to realize she’d bitten her lip at some point during Caleb’s ritual. “Caleb,” she said softly. “Is it really irreversible?”

Caleb drew a deep, shuddering breath behind her. “ _Nein_. Like Beauregard said, I have no idea how to cast a spell like that. I don’t even know how the spellcaster who originally erased his memories did what she did. Until I do, I can’t say one way or the other.”

Yasha closed her eyes. Her head fell onto her hands, forehead pressed against her knuckles. She muttered a prayer to the Stormlord, shoulders shaking with repressed emotion. “Okay. Can you find out how she did it?”

“I… I don’t know for sure. I can’t promise you anything at the moment. But it is possible, _ja_.”

Beau made a sharp, accusatory noise. “Why the fuck did you lie to that guy? He could’ve helped us. And he definitely had information we could’ve used.”

Yasha lifted her head to watch Caleb’s reaction. Caleb looked shaken, forehead shiny with sweat despite the frigid air. He took another shaky breath, not quite looking at Beau. Nott stood steadfastly at his side, one hand fisted around the hem of his longcoat. “He was dangerous. And if he was someone who used to work with or for Lucien, or Nonagon, or whoever Molly was before he was Molly, then I couldn’t risk letting him interfere with Molly’s recovery.” A beat of silence. “Mollymauk said he didn’t want to revisit his past. He said that whoever the man was who walked around in his body before, that wasn’t him. I didn’t…” Caleb faded off, shaking his head and staring at the floor a few feet away from his feet. There was a dull, distant look in his eyes. Nott let go of his coat and took his hand, squeezing it. “I _couldn’t_ let him undo everything Mollymauk worked so hard to build. The person he is now… I couldn’t risk losing him to his past.”

Yasha couldn’t be sure, but something in Caleb’s tone suggested that he was no longer talking only about Molly. She frowned, watching him intently until he shook himself and blinked away the emptiness gathering in his eyes.

“Ahhgh. That makes sense, but I still hate it.” Beau leaned on the couch, tapping the floor with the tip of her staff. The firelight danced on her dark skin, bringing out the highlights in her hair. She huffed. “I see what you mean, though. We have no idea who or what that dude was, only that he’s powerful as fuck and willing to kill to get Lucien back. Which sounds like some crazy-ass cultist shit to me. Probably a good thing he’s gone.”

“I whole-heartedly agree.” Nott let go of Caleb’s hand. She glanced up at him, worry written across her shadowed features. “On a completely unrelated note, does anyone know where Jester and Fjord are? Or did they just wander off into the snow and die?”

“Uhhhh, they said they were going to get firewood,” said Beau. 

Caleb frowned. “How long ago?”

Beau shrugged. “Four hours?”

“That’s… isn’t that a long time?” Yasha fiddled with the braiding on the front of her jerkin, adjusting the straps. “Shouldn’t we be worried by now?”

“There was just so much going on.” Nott looked up at Caleb again. “Do you think we should—?”

At that moment, the door burst open. Jester fell into the room, then picked herself up with a grimace, shaking snow out of her hood and wiping her bloodied, bruised face with the back of her gloved hand. Fjord entered just behind her, looking about as rough as she did.

Yasha and Beau, who were closest to the door, rushed forward to help them. The door slammed shut. The howling of the wind dimmed. A gust of frigid wind spun through the room; the fire flickered and almost died. Beau caught Jester by the shoulder, holding her firmly upright. Yasha grabbed Fjord by the back of his armor just as his knees gave out. She half-carried, half-dragged him to the couch, dropping him onto the overstuffed cushions. Yasha cleared the rest of the couch for Jester as Beau walked her over to sit beside Fjord.

“What in the _fuck_ happened to you guys?” Beau turned her incredulous gaze on Jester, then on Fjord. “You look like shit. Both of you.”

Nott crawled up onto the armrest beside Fjord. Her eyes glowed under the brim of her hood. “Did wolves attack you? Or maybe giant ice spiders?” She shuddered, clearly scaring herself. “Oh god, is there still something out there chasing you? Will it find us here? _Answer me, Fjord!_ ” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

Yasha moved behind the couch, bracing herself with her elbows on the solid, rigid back. She positioned herself directly between Jester and Fjord. She could only see the backs of their heads, but she could see Beau’s face clearly in the firelight. “What happened?” she asked, voice soft and full of unveiled concern.

Fjord shook his head. “Uhhhhg. Uh.” He raised a hand to his face, running it through his hair. Yasha noticed creeping frostbite on the tips of his fingers, blood under his nails and sticking in his hair. “A lot’a shit. Jester, you mind tellin’ her? I feel like my head’s gonna explode.”

Jester tilted her head back with a soft sound of pain. Yasha noted the tense set of her shoulders, and her unusually quiet, subdued demeanor. "Fine, _Fjord._ ” There was a tense pause. Yasha frowned, and Jester continued. “We were out looking for firewood, and then we found this little forest, but Fjord fell in a pit and almost _died,_ so I used up my last spell to save him. Which almost killed me too, for the record. Not that anyone’s keeping a record, but just in case."

Fjord sighed heavily. "Jester's still hurt. She needs rest. We have any more of those thick wool blankets?"

Yasha bent down and retrieved three of the partially moth-eaten blankets slumped in a pile behind the couch. She draped them around Fjord and Jester's shoulders, laying the third across their laps. "Better?"

Fjord nodded. He exhaled, shoulders relaxing. "Better."

Jester curled up under the blankets and was asleep in minutes. Yasha didn't have to be good at reading people to recognize the meaning behind her silence. Something had clearly happened between her and Fjord in that pit; what it was, she could only guess.

Yasha startled as Beau clapped a hand on her shoulder. "You should sleep." It was a suggestion with the force of a command. "I'll watch Molly. Y'know. In case he wakes up tonight."

Yasha frowned. "It's been over a day. The sleeping draught has definitely worn off by now. So why hasn't he woken up yet?"

"I dunno." Beau shrugged, refusing to meet Yasha's eyes. Her hand fell away. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, assuming a slightly defensive stance. "Jester thinks he did some internal damage to himself when he cursed Otis outside the compound. She healed him, but for some reason he's still out. Might be exhaustion. Or just a way of processing whatever the fuck happened to him in that place. Sometimes it’s easier to work that shit out subconsciously before dealing with it in reality, I guess."

Yasha tipped her head, watching Beau with a new sense of curiosity. "Is that what you do?"

Shock flashed across Beau's face. Then confusion, followed by embarrassment and discomfort. "I... No. Nah, I work out my childhood trauma on whatever fuckers decide to get between us and our gold." She reached for her staff, gripping it tight. "I don't even remember my dreams." Another flash of embarrassment. "Most of the time."

There was a long, awkward silence. Then, "Goodnight, Beau," Yasha said. For a moment she considered reaching out and laying a hand on Beau's shoulder. She forced the feeling down, unsure if this would send a message she didn't want to send. Intimacy was tricky, she'd found. Especially romantic intimacy. Which was why her relationship with Molly was so special—she loved him and he loved her, but there was an unspoken agreement that their intimacy was that of siblings rather than lovers. Two wayward souls in a chaotic world, the midnight storm and her shining moon.

"'Night, Yasha. You want to take one of the blankets? I can use Molly's extra one." Beau set her staff aside. She picked up the one remaining blanket and handed it to Yasha.

"Caleb and Nott...?" Yasha began. Beau cut her off with a sharp gesture toward the far corner of the room. Caleb was sitting with his back to the wall, head back and eyes closed, Nott settling herself with her head tucked against his leg. Two large blankets were wrapped around them.

"They're fine. 'S long as we actually get to sleep tonight, we should all be fine."

Yasha nodded. She took the blanket and made her way to the empty armchair. Settling herself with her knees tucked up to her chest and her head pillowed on an armrest, she watched Beau cross the room and crawl up onto Molly's bed. In the dim light of the fading fire, Beau's usually vibrant blue robes faded into shadow. Beau crossed her ankles and settled her hands on her knees. Although Beau's eyes were open, Yasha could tell by the way her shoulders relaxed and her breathing evened out that she was meditating. Or at least attempting to.

Blinking against a wave of violent sleepiness that swept over her like an ocean wave, Yasha yawned and closed her eyes. Fjord and Jester’s gentle snores combined with the soft crackling of the fire and the distant howling of the wind. Soothed by the familiar sounds, Yasha found herself slipping off to sleep.

Her dreams were spattered red. Cries echoed in her ears, violence and death and bloodshed. Golden flowers cupped in shaking hands, blood under her nails and running through her fingers. The flowers wilted. The petals fell to the ground. Little golden butterflies with clipped wings spiraling to earth. When she awoke hours later, breathing hard and fast, it was to find Beau and Caleb leaning over her. Beau was shaking her shoulder. Yasha blinked, sitting bolt upright. She rubbed her face, groaning. "Beau. Caleb. Wha...?"

"It's Molly." Caleb's blue eyes reflected the dying embers of their fire 

Yasha wiped her face, blinking hard. "What? What about Molly?"

Beau's expression was caught between excitement and nervousness. "We think we found a way to get his memories back."

Yasha was immediately awake. "Really?" She took in the mixed emotions on their faces. "What's the catch?"

Caleb exhaled loudly. He reached under his coat, clutching at something out of sight. "Let me explain," he said. He inhaled, closing his eyes. "It's not a simple situation by any means."

"Then explain," said Yasha.

With a quick glance at Beau, Caleb began.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“I found it outside the compound.” Caleb held the book in both hands, palms flat under the thick, symbol-covered leather jacket. Beau noted the bright, almost reverent look in his eyes as he held it against himself, cradling it to his chest. Beau glanced at Yasha, who was watching Caleb with rapt attention. “After Nott fell asleep—” he gestured to Nott’s small, sleeping form in the far corner of the room, “—I thought I would try to figure out what it is. What it’s for. I didn’t want to expose anyone else to it until I understood it better.”

“I saw his light come on and went over to see what he was reading.” Beau crossed her arms, trying not to look as smug as she felt. “He couldn’t hide it faster than I could grab it.” She flexed her fingers like a cat sliding out its claws. “I’ve got the reflexes of a Displacer Beast.”

Yasha tilted her head. Her eyes narrowed, pupils wide in the dim light of the fire’s embers. “And what is it? Where did it come from?”

“Otis dropped it when I was chasing him.” Beau shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking first at Yasha, then at Caleb. Caleb frowned, eyebrows pinched together and chin tilted down. He stared at the floor halfway between his feet and Yasha’s. When it became clear he wasn’t going to add anything, Beau continued. “Caleb thinks it’s some sort of ritual book, or manual. The spellcaster used it to bring Molly back from the dead. Twice.”

Yasha ran her fingers through her thick, matted hair. Beau noticed the way her hands shook. “And his memories?”

Beau looked at Caleb. “Seems like she used the book to do that, too. Caleb read a third of the way through it in the last hour—”

“I would have managed more if you hadn’t interrupted,” Caleb muttered.

Beau rolled her eyes. “Don’t interrupt my story about me interrupting you, man. No one likes a hypocrite.” Before Caleb or Yasha could call her out, she rushed on. “Anyway, it’s in Infernal. But not, like, _Modern Standard_ Infernal. Some kind of ancient dialect or something.”

Caleb nodded, and went back to staring at the floor. “It’s difficult to read. Even with my spell, comprehending this dialect is…” He trailed off, waving one hand as if trying to summon a description from thin air, “…painful.”

Yasha frowned. “But you can read it?”

“ _Ja,_ I can read it. But it is very difficult.”

Beau pressed her palms against her eyes. She sighed heavily. As the fire died, the cold crept through cracks in the walls, clinging to her bare stomach and upper arms like a mantle of ice. “Tell her about the ritual.”

“Which one?” said Yasha and Caleb in unison.

“Y’know, the memory one.”

Another long beat of heavy silence. “Oh, _ja_.” Caleb shifted, visibly nervous. “I found a ritual that N.V. could have used to erase Mollymauk’s memories. I didn’t find a direct way to undo its effects, but I think that, with the proper materials and careful reversal of the original ritual, I should be able to approximate a counter-spell.”

Beau met Yasha’s gaze. Yasha blinked slowly. “How likely is it to work?”

Ice settled in Beau’s heart—a different kind of ice than the frozen air licking at her bare skin, like a shard of crystal piercing her chest and sticking in her lungs. She waited for Caleb to reply. When he didn’t, she took over for him. “Caleb says it’ll probably work, but there’re risks.”

Yasha’s gaze was guarded, expression carefully blank. “Risks,” she repeated. Her voice was as hollow as a war drum. “What kind of risks?”

Beau opened her mouth to reply, but Caleb beat her to it. “There is a high chance that the ritual will work.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. Another electric silence. “That it will bring back his memories.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” said Yasha.

Caleb looked up. His blue eyes were full of mixed emotions—doubt and fear circling a point of bright hope. “ _All_ of his memories.”

“Oh,” said Yasha. “Oh, fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy solstice!! Hope y'all have an excellent summer/winter, depending on which hemisphere you live in! <3


	12. Part II Chapter XII: First Light

****

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

****

**FIRST LIGHT**

_You’re standing at the end of a hallway. There’s a light ahead. You can’t look away._

_You’re standing in a moonlit field. Someone’s holding your hand. There’s a voice in your head, so familiar it shatters your heart. The shards catch the moonlight, and it sticks. The light is blinding. You can’t look away._

_You’re standing on top of a tower. The light is inside you._

_You close your eyes._

_You fall._

° ° °

Molly came up for air, gasping, hands fisted in warm, thick blankets. His eyes opened. The world was dark. Blood in his eyes, on his tongue. Painting his chin and throat, gushing onto snow-dusted grass, _fire and a flash of gold-gilded teeth, pain and anger and disappointment and regret as the world spun and the stars fell and the light inside him exploded, ripping up his lungs like little paper butterflies…_

Through the dark, two points of burning light. 

_You’re standing at the end of a hallway._

A familiar voice, loud and brash, calling his name.

_You’re standing in a moonlit field._

He blinked, and the world came into focus.

Someone was yelling at him. A woman with dark skin and a half-shaved head and the sleek muscularity of a wildcat. She grabbed his shoulders, shaking him, thumbs digging into the dips beneath his collarbones. For a moment he was disoriented, too weak and dizzy to understand what was happening, and then he took a deep breath and regained control of his unresponsive body. He pushed her away, ducking out of her grasp. He scrambled back until he hit the headboard of the musty, sagging bed, then crouched with his knees bent and his arms splayed for balance.

“Molly!” A name that was and was not his. It belonged to him, but he wasn’t sure he belonged to it. Everything was a blur. All he’d ever known was white light and the tang of iron on his tongue.

“Molly! Molly, it’s okay.”

Six of them clustered around his bed. Their faces revealed a mix of emotions—concern, fear, confusion, relief. There was a man with green skin and a scar on the left side of his face. He stood at the foot of the bed next to a small green-skinned girl with long ears and round, luminescent golden eyes. Crouched on the bed next to the woman who’d yelled at him was a blue-skinned woman with curling horns and wide purple eyes. She held a pouch of herbs in one hand, the other digging through a kit full of bandages and tiny vials of clear liquid. The blue-skinned woman was talking in a loud, heavily-accented voice about a lot of things Molly didn’t understand. The woman with the half-shaved head was watching him with unsettling intensity. 

Molly looked to the right. Kneeling beside him was a very pale, tall woman with black hair that tapered to white, her multicolored eyes gleaming in the half-light of a flickering fire. She held out a hand to him, palm up, tears in her eyes. Molly looked away.

To his left was a man with auburn hair and eyes so blue the rest of the world paled in comparison. He held an orange tabby cat in one bent arm, cradled against his chest; in the other he held a familiar leather-clad book etched with ancient, dark symbols.

Molly opened his mouth, but his voice wouldn't work and his mouth was desert-dry. He licked his cracked lips, tasting blood. Frustrated and confused, he pointed at the book. He tried to speak again. Nothing came out. With a hiss of disappointment and frustration, he slumped against the headboard, muscles weak and shaky.

"It's the book," the green-skinned girl with the golden eyes said. "I think he recognizes it."

 _No shit,_ Molly thought. _Why else would I be pointing at it?_

The woman who'd shaken him awake slid off the bed to make more room for the blue-skinned woman with the herbs and medical supplies. Molly was hesitant to let her near him at first, but once he relaxed enough to take in her kind features and intentions, he tilted his head back against the headboard and let her check him over.

"Molly, you have blood all over your face." The blue woman pulled out a clean cloth and poured a clear, strong-smelling substance on it. She put a hand on his cheek, holding his head in place as she dabbed at his face. When she pulled away, the cloth was stained a dull red. "You keep having nosebleeds, and your eyes were even bleeding this time. You were like, freaking out and stuff, and Beau had to hold you down. Also, you slept for eeeeever after I gave you that sleeping potion. Do you know why?" 

Molly shrugged. Truthfully, he had no idea. It was likely that it had something to do with his abilities, but he couldn't be sure. And even if he could be, he had no good way of verbalizing that fact.

The blue woman sighed. "Yasha, I think you should probably be the one to talk to him now. He doesn't recognize us, but you know him best, and you were with him the longest, so it makes the most sense, really."

"Should the rest of us move on over to the couch, or do you think it would help to have us here?" This was the taller green-skinned man with the scar on his face. Molly looked at him, and he looked away, toward the broad-shouldered, pale woman to Molly's right. 

"I think you should give him some room." The pale woman didn't look at the others. Her eyes were fixed on Molly, who turned to meet her gaze. He saw sadness there, and mixed with it, weary relief. The woman's multicolored eyes flickered past Molly, landing on the man holding Narayah's spell book. "Except for Caleb," the pale woman said. "Caleb can stay. In fact, it would be better if he did."

Caleb. _Your friend, Caleb Widogast._ Molly pressed a hand to his chest. They hadn't cut the black shirt off him entirely; the high, choking neck had been stripped away, but the rest was intact. He traced the outline of the letter folded over his heart. Beside it was the ragged, crested ridge of his longest and thickest scar. The scar Narayah had refused to explain. The scar belonging to a wound that could only have been fatal.

The others moved away from the bed toward the flickering fire. Only the pale woman and the man with the book remained.

 _Caleb. Yasha._ Names he knew without knowing, people he'd loved longer than he'd lived.

Caleb kept his distance. Yasha moved onto the bed, one hand still palm-up in a placating gesture. "Molly," Yasha said. Her voice was soft, husky. "Do you know who I am?"

Molly swallowed. _You're part of the Mighty Nein,_ he wanted to say. _You're part of the family I didn't know I had._

The sadness written on Yasha's face grew. Molly didn't know why—didn't even know who Yasha was to him—but he knew without a doubt that he would do anything to take that sadness away. He reached out and grasped her hand, taking comfort in the fact that she was shaking as hard as he was. He fell against her as she reached out, and she held him gently, carefully, one hand on his back and the other on the back of his head. He buried his face in her shoulder and breathed in the unfamiliar but invigorating scent of frost and woodfire smoke. There was a hint of lightning there as well—ozone crackling with deadly potential. Molly shuddered.

"We have to ask him about the book, _ja_?" This was Caleb. Molly didn't know Caleb's voice, but when he heard it, his heart ached in a way he couldn't explain. Vaguely, he remembered hearing it through the veil of panic and pain after taking down Otis. The memory was so hazy and faint he could barely recall more than a blur of white snow and the burning warmth of hands on his face. Now, Caleb's voice was clear and unhindered by the howling wind and the pounding of blood in Molly's ears. Somehow, he hadn't expected the accent. He couldn't place it—Narayah's spell had made him a blank slate—but he found it both fascinating and somewhat soothing.

Yasha pulled away. She cupped Molly's face in both hands, stroking her thumbs over the crests of his cheeks. She swallowed, eyes downcast as she moved to stand beside the bed again. "Do you want to tell him, or should I?"

Molly's eyes narrowed. He looked from Caleb to Yasha, trying and failing to meet their eyes. Both looked down and away, poorly-veiled pain and distress written across their faces. He crossed his arms, tucking his legs under him and dragging one of the wool blankets up to cover his shaking body. He huffed, rolling his eyes at the ceiling to make his impatience abundantly clear.

Caleb was the first to look up. He sighed, looking at a point somewhere between Molly's chin and chest, bright eyes darkened by the shadows fleeing the firelight. "There is a ritual." He adjusted his arm so that the tabby cat could easily leap down to the floor. With both hands, he clutched Narayah's book to his chest, long, nimble fingers wrapped around the symbol-strewn spine. "It could restore your memories." Before Molly had time to process this, Caleb rushed on, guilt joining the other emotions scattered across his face like bodies on a battlefield. "There is only one problem. Although I'm confident that I could perform the ritual, it's extremely likely that doing so will bring back all of your memories." He swallowed, wincing. "Not just the ones you made after your first resurrection." 

Molly frowned, tilting his head to one side. His _first_ resurrection? So this had happened before? It made sense in a weird, twisted way—clearly, he hadn't actually been born two months ago—but the fact that he knew nothing more about his past than what he'd found in Caleb's letter was disturbing. What if he'd been a bad person? What if he'd done terrible things?

He _had_ done terrible things. He'd killed people. He'd killed Kenith, the only person who'd cared. The person who'd risked his life for Molly's sanity, the man who'd shown compassion in a white world of violence and hate. 

_You're standing on top of a tower._

He closed his eyes, struggling to control the guilt and anger burning inside him. Narayah had hated it when he lashed out, when he showed emotions of any kind. It had only happened once or twice; he had quickly learned to hold it in. Blank face, dead eyes. Compliance and loyalty beyond doubt or damage.

"Molly. _Molly_." Yasha again. Her gentle fingers were back on his face, fingers splayed against his cheeks, his neck. She sounded desperate, afraid. "Molly, please."

Molly inhaled sharply. He opened his eyes. Yasha immediately pulled away, the expression on her face somewhere between anger and sadness. Molly understood that the anger wasn't aimed at him—how could it be, when Yasha didn't know the depth of his sins?—but it scared him nonetheless. When she found out what he'd done, would she want him anymore? Would any of them?

"I can perform the ritual at any time." Caleb's voice was small, soft. "If you need time to think, we can give you that. However, the longer we wait, the smaller the chance of success. Whatever was done to your mind—the spell used to block off your memories from you—must be strong enough that my magic can find and target it. The longer we wait, the fainter that signature gets." Caleb stroked the book's spine, nervous fingers dancing over devil's words.

Molly blinked. He met Caleb's gaze directly for the first time. Caleb held it for a moment before glancing away. Molly opened his mouth. Words wouldn't come, voice trapped between shredded lungs and bone-dry lips. It wasn't physical, really. He knew that the block, like the one holding back his memories, was mental. That didn't make it any easier to overcome.

Caleb and Yasha exchanged a loaded look across the bed. Molly pretended not to notice. He looked down, folding his hands in his lap. For the first time, he questioned the motives of these strangers. What if they were lying? What if they'd found his letter and were pretending to be people they weren't?

So many faces with hidden motives. So many broken words and violent caresses. Memories passing like ghosts, blood on pale lips, icy veins and defiant eyes...

"You don't have to decide now." Caleb's eyes were on him again. This time, Molly was the one to look away. "It's a very big decision." A wild understatement. "We understand if you need to spend some time thinking it through."

Molly swallowed. He gripped the blanket in both hands, sweaty palms and shaking fingers. He ducked his chin, inhaling and exhaling, lips moving around silent words. He closed his eyes; the world went dark, then white, white walls and white dresses and burning white eyes. He opened them again, gasping. Yasha made a move toward him, but something in Molly's expression must've warned her back; she stopped at the edge of the bed, her gaze troubled and hurt.

"I don't need time." Molly's voice surprised himself. He didn't recognize it, mangled and raspy and unused. During his time with Narayah, he could count on one hand the times he'd spoken aloud. The last time had been when he'd killed her. Killed her and Dyran, his hands stained red and fangs bared like the animal he was. "I need to know." _I need to know what I've done,_ he wanted to say, but his voice failed and his throat ached. He winced, rubbing at the tight skin under his chin.

Caleb and Yasha exchanged another heavy glance. "It's just that you have to be sure," Caleb said. "One time you told us you were happy not knowing your past. That you preferred to live the new life you'd built yourself, and whoever it was who'd died before you came back from the dead, he was another person."

"Molly." Yasha's expression was raw, open. "You told us you were happy not knowing. Is that true now?"

"We can help you remember in other ways." Caleb pulled the book against himself, cradling it like he had his cat. "You won't _actually_ remember, but we can tell you everything we do know. About you, and us, and who you were before. The ritual isn't the only way."

Molly took them in. Yasha with her wild hair and gentle hands, Caleb with his flickering eyes and careful words. He didn't know them. He didn't know any of them. And yet he was at their mercy, weaponless and weak and only two months old, and they'd been nothing but kind to him. "I want to remember." The truest thing he'd ever said. "I feel like I'm chasing ghosts. I'm tired of this. I want to be me again." What he didn't say was, _whoever I was, I hope he's worth saving._

Caleb inhaled shakily. Molly heard the air catch in his throat and turned to see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. He stared at a point on the bed halfway between himself and Molly, throat working as he struggled to speak. How strange, Molly thought, that his words had made Caleb speechless. 

Caleb opened the book, spread across both palms, eyes moving rapidly as he turned the pages. His expression was tight with discomfort, as if the words themselves caused him physical pain. "I can do it tonight. If you're willing."

Molly nodded. "Oh, I'm more than willing."

Molly thought he saw the ghost of a smile cross Caleb's face. Then Caleb sighed, and it disappeared like summer fog. "Then I will do it. I just need to make the proper arrangements. For the ritual, and with the rest of the party." 

"I'll stay with you," Yasha told Molly. "Unless you want to be alone?"

Molly swallowed hard. All his life, he hadn't been allowed to _want_ anything. How could he possibly know what he wanted now? Did he want his memories back, or was he just desperate to prove that he could be more than what Narayah had made him?

"I'll leave you alone for a while, then." Yasha's expression was caught between sadness and relief. Molly didn't realize he'd spoken aloud—he had no idea what he'd even said. But Yasha was already moving away, shoulders tense and head bowed, and Molly couldn't bring himself to call her back.

Caleb stayed by Molly's bed a moment longer. Molly felt the unique heat of his gaze and turned to meet it directly. Caleb frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "I can't promise you this will work."

"Maybe not,” Molly said. Caleb glanced away, then back as if determined to hold Molly's gaze despite his discomfort. "But I trust you."

"Thank you," Caleb whispered. He looked like he wanted to say more, eyebrows pinched together, lips parted around unsaid words. Then he exhaled shakily and turned away. "Rest, Mollymauk. I'll be close if you need anything."

Molly slumped back against the headboard as Caleb walked away. He pulled the blanket up to his chest. Reaching into the fabric of his black shadow-suit, he pulled out the crumpled, stained letter. He smoothed it with careful fingers, tracing the familiar lines of black ink until the pad of his forefinger was stained with it. _Even if you don't remember anything else, I need you to know that you have a place with us. Always._

White walls and burning eyes. Frost and lightning in his veins. The pain of drawing his own blood, of sacrificing pieces of himself to fuel the heat of battle.

_Your friend, Caleb Widogast._

A blade in his hand and ice crawling up his red-stained wrists. Radiant light exploding from singed, bloodied fingers.

_Yasha, Jester, Fjord, Nott, Beau, Caleb._

A phantom blade in his chest, missing memories written in the scarred ridge over his heart.

_You're standing on top of a tower._

Dirt in his mouth and under his nails, shadows chasing him across the barren landscape of his mind. A glimpse of light, of moonlight spilling between silver clouds. The first light he'd ever seen.

_The light is inside of you._

Molly stared at nothing. The light filled him until he was drowning in it, choking on it, burning alive. The world melted away and it was only him and the light, the endless expanse of heat and sulfur and burnt grass like grasping fingers reaching for the smoky sky.

_You close your eyes._

We are all just memories, moments passing like ghosts.

_Who am I? What am I supposed to be?_

And finally, the end, when all our futures fade.

He never had a choice. Chasing ghosts, memories elusive as moonbeams dancing in forgotten stone circles. The end and the beginning. An endless circle, snake eating its own tail. Eternity etched in mortal flesh.

_You're standing on top of a tower. The light is inside you._

_You close your eyes._

_You fall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 22 years old today and I spent my birthday eating cake, hitting basketballs with shovels, and annoying my relatives by requesting that my sisters play a kazoo version of the happy birthday song instead of singing. So pretty much the best day of my life.
> 
> Thank you again to all y'all for commenting/leaving kudos/messaging me on Tumblr!! I love you all so much <3


	13. Part II Chapter XIII: Missing Memories, Forged in Fire

****

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

****

**MISSING MEMORIES, FORGED IN FIRE**

After the incident in the pit, Fjord didn’t think his day could get any worse. Standing in the tiny kitchen of the wooden shack with Yasha on his right and Caleb on his left, one staring into the near distance with a haunted look on her face while the other traced the symbols on a book of dangerous fiendish lore, he realized just how wrong he’d been.

“Let me get this straight.” Fjord ran a hand through his hair, slicking back the strands sticking to his face in the dry, static-filled air. “Molly doesn’t know who we are. He doesn’t know who he is, or what happened to him before that fuckin’ spellcaster got to him. Correct?”

Caleb nodded. He wouldn’t meet Fjord’s gaze, eyes fixed on the worn leather book cradled in his hands. “His memories are suppressed. There is a sort of barrier in his mind.” Caleb’s finger paused over a symbol in the shape of a trident with arrowhead barbs. He looked up at Yasha and Fjord, then down again. A crease formed between his eyebrows. “I can remove it. The longer we wait, however, the less likely I am to succeed.”

Fjord sighed heavily. “I get what you’re sayin’. But I don’t know if it’s right, morally speakin’, to do this thing without givin’ Molly more time to think it over. I mean, he’s been in that goddamn compound for over two months, far as we can tell. Will a couple more days do that much harm?”

“ _Ja,_ it could. This isn’t my area of expertise, so I don’t really know how it all works. All I know is what I read—” he tapped the book’s cover, “—and what I know of magic and memory in general. Memories, in my experience, can be tampered with or even changed by a powerful enough caster. Which N.V. was. I think we can agree on that, at least.” Caleb paused, shifting, clearly uncomfortable. He still wouldn’t meet Fjord’s gaze.

Yasha blinked. She turned to Fjord, taking a deep, shaky breath as if she’d just woken up from a nightmare, or returned to the surface after a long dive. “He may not have his memories, but this is still his choice. Whatever happened in his past—and I mean _whatever_ —if he wants to remember, he should be given the chance.”

Fjord leaned on the decrepit, half-rotten counter. “Fuck.” There was a long, slightly uncomfortable silence. “I just don’t… it’s like when someone’s fuckin’ wasted and they ask for another drink. Do you give it to them if you know it’ll fuck them up even worse?”

“Do we?” Yasha’s voice was soft but strong. She crossed her arms, eyes gleaming in the half-light, silhouetted against the fire, broad-shouldered and slightly menacing. Although he was taller, Fjord felt suddenly small under her sharp, relentless gaze. 

“Do we what?”

“Know it’ll fuck him up worse.”

Fjord considered it. He ran his tongue over the sanded surfaces of his tusks, trying to arrange the tangled words in his head. He crossed his arms, mirroring Yasha’s stance. “We don’t know what happened to Molly before he was Molly. He told us he’s happy not knowing.”

“Maybe he would be happier not knowing,” Caleb said softly, “but right now he has nothing but whatever happened to him in that compound. I understand where you are coming from, Fjord, but I would argue very strongly that remembering his past beats not remembering anything beyond the last two months.”

Yasha didn’t have to say anything for Fjord to know she agreed. With another heavy, soul-deep sigh, he scrubbed his hand over his face. “Alright, then. Guess that’s settled. But Caleb, if there’s anything you can do, any way you can figure out to keep the older stuff from leakin’ through, I think it would be the morally upstanding thing to make sure you do it.”

“Of course.” Caleb went back to running his fingers up and down the book’s spine. There was a distant, pained look on his face. “I will do whatever I can to spare him from that.”

Fjord nodded. “Good. Is there anything I can do to help? Any preparations or materials you need?”

Caleb shook his head. “I would like to be alone with him. When I perform the ritual, I don’t want any of you in the same room.”

Yasha noticeably tensed at this. “Why? Are you expecting something bad to happen?”

“ _Nein_. Just…” Caleb winced. “I’m not sure how this will play out, and I don’t want to put anyone at unnecessary risk.”

Fjord looked at Caleb, then at Yasha, then back again, reading the situation. Yasha’s shoulders were set, jaw clenched. Her hands fisted by her hips. Caleb looked up, met Fjord’s eyes for a moment, then looked away. His expression was caught between anxiety and resolve. 

“I want to be there when it happens.” Yasha’s voice held a note of danger. Her eyes flashed. “I have to be there for him.” Her voice wavered slightly. She turned her head, masked by shadows. Fjord didn’t know if he was imagining it, but he thought he saw tears gleaming in Yasha’s eyes. He looked away, uncomfortable and unsure what to say—if there was anything to say at all.

Caleb cleared his throat. He’d opened the book, arms trembling with the effort of holding it flat and steady. “I’m going to get my things. I think I should do it in the basement.” He glanced at Yasha. “I understand that you want to be there to support him,” he said, “but it will work better if I’m allowed to concentrate fully on the ritual. There could be some bumps in the road, so to speak, and I would rather not have to worry about the effect they may have on others until the ritual is complete.”

Yasha closed her eyes. Emotions crossed her face, the five stages of grief cycling in a second. She opened her eyes. There was acceptance in them, tinged with sadness. She nodded. When she spoke, her voice crackled like dry kindling in an autumn fire. “Don’t let anything happen to him. He’s been through enough.”

“We all have,” said Fjord. He closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself for whatever came next. “It’s been a tough few days. Hell, it’s been a tough few months.”

“Years,” Caleb said, so softly Fjord wondered if he’d meant for anyone else to hear.

“I just…” Yasha’s face was still turned away. Her fingers tangled in the rawhide ropes twined through the front of her tunic, picking at the frayed ends. “…I can’t let it happen again. Never again.”

Fjord and Caleb exchanged a glance. Fjord saw his own sympathy and sadness reflected in Caleb’s face. “We’ll make sure it never happens again,” Fjord said. He turned to Yasha, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. “We’re all in this together. Whatever trouble comes our way—be it physical, mental, or somethin’ in between—we’ll face it as a team. And I know that’s corny, but it’s the truth. This isn’t a ‘ _you’_ problem anymore. It’s an ‘ _us’_ problem. We’ve gotta trust each other.” A pause. “Well, maybe ‘ _trust’_ isn’t quite the right word, but we’ve gotta be able to count on each other when it matters. And right now, Caleb is asking you to let him do what he needs to do to help Molly. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think it’s the best way.” 

“That is correct.” Caleb shut the book with a _snap._ “As soon as I know the results, you’ll be the first to know.” He looked at Yasha, who turned away. Her lashes were wet with unshed tears, gleaming like frost in the firelight.

“If it starts to go wrong,” Yasha said, “promise me you’ll call it off.”

Caleb held out his hand. Yasha stared at it for a long moment, then took it. “I promise you—” Caleb’s voice was low, gravelly. Sincere. “—that I will stop if I think I’m hurting him. _Ja_?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Yasha echoed. The corner of her mouth turned up for the briefest second. She dropped Caleb’s hand, turning away again. “I’ll stand watch outside. I saw wolf tracks in the snow while I was out hunting. We can’t let our guard down now.”

Fjord watched her fade into the shadows, headed for the door. She wrenched it open. For a moment she stood framed between rickety wooden beams, the hilt of her greatsword sticking up over her shoulder, the light tips of her matted hair gleaming like polished moonlight. Then the door slammed shut and she disappeared into the storm. In the distance, thunder roared.

Fjord turned to Caleb. Caleb tucked the book into one of his holsters, muttering what sounded like a Zemnian curse as the massive, thick tome burst one of the straps. He sighed. “I’ll go set up the ritual.”

Fjord put a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, Caleb. You need anything, let us know.”

Caleb nodded. “I appreciate that.” His voice was half a whisper. Fjord retracted his hand and Caleb made for his satchel of supplies at the other end of the room. 

Fjord watched him go, frowning. He dragged his fingers through his hair, hands shaking despite the warmth emanating from the nearby fire. _Whatever happens now_ , he told himself, _it’s out of my control._ Caleb would do what he could. This was the hand they’d been dealt. For better or worse, the game was on. They’d play the cards they’d been given and look for luck wherever they could find it.

He closed his eyes. In the darkness, Jester’s face appeared unbidden, bloodied and pinched with pain. Her lips formed his name, soft and sincere. He inhaled sharply. This wasn’t the time to dwell. He’d have to deal with what had happened in that pit, but right now he had other things to worry about. He opened his eyes, but the pain didn’t fade with the images in his head. “Fuck,” he muttered. He braced himself with one hand on the counter. 

Across the room, Caleb straightened up, hands full of supplies. He turned and met Fjord’s gaze. “I’ve got everything I need,” Caleb said. His voice shook, but his expression was full of resolve. 

Fjord nodded. “Alright. Do whatever you’ve gotta do.”

Caleb nodded. He crossed to the trapdoor, knelt, and lifted the boards. 

“And Caleb,” Fjord called out as Caleb descended into the dark, “let me know when you’re ready. I’ll send Molly down, if he’s still willing.”

“He is.” Caleb’s tone was firm, sure. The last Fjord saw of him as he slipped into the dark were his eyes, glowing with an almost unearthly blue light. Frumpkin skittered out from under the bed and disappeared after Caleb just before the trapdoor slammed shut. 

° ° °

In the silence that followed, Fjord settled himself in the armchair beside the fire. Jester and Nott were stretched out on the couch pretending to be asleep. Beau paced back and forth in front of the fire, hands clenched into fists, a muscle in her jaw ticking. Outside, the wind screamed. The fire flickered, dancing on rotting floorboards. Fjord glanced over his shoulder; on the bed, Molly sat up against the headboard, his slightly raspy breathing audible in the heavy silence. Molly’s eyes were closed. His hands rested on his bent knees, head tilted back so that his horns scraped against the wooden bed-board. As if sensing Fjord’s attention, his eyes slid open, pupil-less, unreadable. Fjord looked back at the flickering fire.

Caleb emerged from the basement. “It’s ready,” he said.

Fjord regained his feet. “Molly.” He looked over at the bed again; Molly was watching Caleb with an expression bordering on reverence. He frowned. “Hey, Molly. You still wanna do this?”

Molly’s eyes never left Caleb’s face. “Yes.” His voice was soft as fledgling feathers. So different from his usual bold self-confidence. “I have to know.”

Fjord stifled a sigh. He ran a hand over his face, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, Molly was off the bed and standing next to the trapdoor, keeping his distance as if unsure where to stand. Fjord’s heart hurt, a dull ache halfway between sympathy and anger. Half of him wished N.V. was still alive so he could kill her himself. He shook his head, chasing away the darkness pressing in on the edges of his mind. What was done was done. There was no changing the past.

Caleb turned to Molly with a soft half-smile. “Mollymauk. Follow me, _ja?_ ” Still hesitant but clearly emboldened by the clear invitation, Molly followed Caleb into the dark. Fjord watched them go before sinking back into the armchair. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head back against the backrest. He closed his eyes. _Now we wait,_ he thought. _We just fuckin’ wait._

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Caleb stood in front of Mollymauk with the book in his hands and his heart in his throat. He'd drawn a circle in the frozen dirt of the basement; Molly knelt at the center on a thin woolen blanket. Molly's head was down, the metallic caps on the tips of his horns glinting in the flickering light of a captive fire. Caleb watched Molly's chest rise and fall, every sharp curve and ridge of the tiefling's body visible beneath the sleek, shadowy suit he wore. He was thinner, Caleb noted. Thin but lean, as if someone had carved away the soft curves and left only hard angles and sharp lines.

"Everything is ready." Caleb knelt in front of Molly. His hands shook beneath the engraved cover of Narayah's book. "Are you?"

Molly nodded. He wouldn't look at Caleb—before, it had always been the other way around. Caleb frowned. There was something about Molly's blank expression that made him pause. "Do you really want this? If you're only doing it because you think that is what the rest of us want, then don’t. This is your choice. Only you can decide what is best for you.”

Molly laughed a cold, bitter sound. “My choice.” He looked up, red eyes blazing, and met Caleb's gaze. "I might not know much, Caleb, but I do know this: whoever I was before, he had people who loved him. He had everything I've never had. So I don't care if it means I suffer more later. I just want to be myself again." 

Caleb's chest ached. He pressed his palms to his eyes for a moment, composing himself. Clearing his throat, he said, "If that is the case, we can begin." He raised his hands, fingers already tingling with power. The book lay open in the space between his knees and Molly's. He reached out, fingers hovering inches from Molly's face. "Can I...?"

Molly grabbed Caleb's wrists. He leaned in, framing his face between Caleb’s outstretched hands. "I trust you." 

Caleb's hands shook. He inhaled, breath catching, and looked down at the open book. The jagged symbols burned and blurred as he looked at them. His head ached. His vision blurred and shifted as he struggled to focus. His attempt at writing up a counterspell lay open across the other page, the aged and crumpled paper yellow in the torchlight. 

He took a deep breath and began.

He was halfway through the ritual when something shifted in his mind. It started as a soft haziness, but as he continued, his vision blurred and his muscles stiffened. Under his hands, Molly's skin was feverishly hot. Caleb tried to blink the haze away. It was useless—the harder he tried, the stronger the feeling got. His mouth kept moving, forming words he'd learned by heart, continuing the ritual even as his consciousness shifted and his vision faded to black.

"Caleb?" Through the ringing in his ears, Caleb heard Molly’s voice. He tried to respond, to say anything at all, but the force in his head was too strong; before he knew what was happening, he pitched forward into oblivion, thoughts spinning, blurry and opaque, little lost ghosts in the endless dark.

° ° °

He couldn't breathe. He couldn’t see. He reached out and cold earth pressed back, dirt in his mouth, covering him like a death shroud. He clawed at the dirt above him, panic taking over.

Gasping, coughing, he broke through the stifling dark and emerged into the sunlight. Clouds passed overhead, thick, white, and fluffy. The smell of spring filled the air. Blinking rapidly, breathing too fast as he crawled out of the ground and sprawled on the grass, Caleb realized that he wasn't in control of his body. Shaking hands came up to touch his face, searching for meaning in the emptiness of his mind. The hands were lavender. The claws, long and slender, were caked with grave dirt. _Mollymauk_. A new kind of panic flooded Caleb’s mind _. This is his memory. I'm inside his head._

He hadn't known this would happen. If he had, he wouldn't have done it, wouldn't have forced Molly to endure such a personal and invasive procedure without explicit consent. But even if Caleb knew how to escape the prison of his and Molly's joined consciousnesses, he had no idea what would happen if he pulled out of the ritual now. For all he knew, it could further damage Molly's memories. Maybe even erase them. No, he would just have to let this pass and pray to whatever gods might be listening that Molly wouldn't hate him afterward. 

Flashes of rain and lightning and men with knives that glinted as they pressed against his skin. Fear, wild and aimless. Shaking hands and pounding heart, wandering the wilderness alone, fingers numb, mind blank. Nothing to his name—did he have a name? if he did, he couldn't remember it—but confusion and emptiness. The kind of emptiness that filled his chest and spread, slithering poison in his veins, from the black-hole pit where his memories should be. He searched for words but they evaded him, lost in the hollowness.

He remembered a clearing. Grassy, white ghostly flowers blooming under a silver crescent moon. He stumbled into the center and fell to his knees. Head up, hands clenched around nothing. He whispered a prayer in words he couldn't remember learning. A cry that came from deep within him, from some tiny untouched corner of the life he'd lost. He'd been alone for as long as he could remember. Alone and terrified and unable to understand where he was or what had happened or why he existed at all. _Who am I?_ he asked the smiling moon. _I can't remember. I can’t._

The moonlight touched his face. Drops of liquid light ran down his cheeks, glinting on his lavender skin. He felt a gentle touch on his head, fingers stroking his hair. He looked up, but there was nothing there. A soft gust of spring air, the breath of the world sweet and soft on his skin. He tilted back his head and basked in it. For the first time, he felt at peace, warmth radiating from the place where the moon pressed gentle kisses to his nose, his cheeks, his parted lips. He watched stars spin like snowflakes in the dusky sky. How cold, he thought, to watch the stars fall. To hold them in your hands, tiny broken pieces of light. A reminder that, in the end, even the fairest things fall.

Caleb blinked—or rather, Molly did—and everything changed. He saw the carnival. Gustav's face, creased with curiosity and concern. A blur of faces, of questions and confusion.

_Who are you?_

_Where did you come from?_

_Why are you out here on your own?_

And the most common one, the one he couldn't stand because it reminded him just how empty he was, how little he knew: _What's your name?_

Bitter laughter. _That's a good goddamn question._

_You don't have one? A name?_

_I have nothing._

_You have me. You have us._

_For how long?_

_For as long as you like._

_That's a lie_ , he thought but didn't say. _That’s a goddamn fucking lie._

He remembered the restlessness. It grew with every town they travelled to. He never remembered the nightmares when he woke up, but their auras followed him, darkness and restlessness sticking like a second skin. There was something he needed to do. Something he'd lost. Something important, vital, essential. Something that had made him who he'd been before.

He did everything he could to chase away that feeling. Whoever had owned his body before him hadn’t been a good person. He knew that like he knew the face of the moon. So he smiled, he laughed, he drank, he told stories and read fortunes and got so high he forgot his new name. He pierced his horns and made his body a canvas, colorful symbols etched in ink. Whatever happened, no one could take that away from him. His choices. His decisions. A way to forget that he'd forgotten.

Flashes of faces. Strangers, lovers, temporary friends. Never in one town too long, moving from place to place, setting up and taking down. Impermanent. Temporary. Living on the edge, running from something that lived in his mind, locked behind bent bars.

And finally, breaking away. Finding relief in the thrill of new adventures, of people and places and things he'd never seen. _Yasha, Jester, Fjord, Nott, Beau, Caleb._ The beginning of something real. The promise of the family he'd never had.

He remembered standing alone under the moon one night when everyone else was asleep in the wagon, chest warm from liquor, hands shaking from the cold. _How long will this last?_ he asked the moon.

_For as long as you like._

_That's a lie. It’s always a fucking lie._

Darkness and fire and cruel, hard laughter. A blade in his chest and blood in his throat. Chin up, eyes open. Afraid to blink, to be lost to the darkness pressing in from all sides. As if, by keeping the world in his sight, he could bind himself to it. 

Regret. Anger. Sadness. Indignance, frustration, pain. All the stars he'd never counted, all the words he'd never said. Two years, flashing by like shooting stars. Firefly in a jar, candle burning too fast, red wax dripping down his chin and pooling in the hollow of his throat.

He wanted to say something. To keep fighting, to get back up and give as good as he got. But his body was wrecked, broken. So he did the only thing he could: baring his fangs, he spit in Lorenzo's face. Defiance, irreverence, refusal to die on another's terms. And then the end, when the future faded, memories passing like ghosts in the endless night.

Caleb thought that would be the end of the suppressed memories, of all the moments Narayah had stolen. He waited, suspended in the waxing dark, to return to his own mind and body. 

Instead, he fell deeper. Flashes of light and shadow, of faces and places unfamiliar and dark in ways Caleb couldn't comprehend. Falling through the barriers built in Molly's mind, deeper and deeper until he once again found himself in Molly's body, the world blurring around him, cold and dark and vividly real.

Chaos. Voices, flashes of color and sound. He stood in a clearing at the head of a wooden table. Cloaked figures surrounded him. Their faces turned toward him as he stood to give a toast. Caleb couldn't make sense of his own words, but he felt the emotion behind them: this was a big moment. Something was about to happen, the result of years of dedication and hard work. Molly—Lucien?—was preparing to make a move. A ritual, a ceremony, the end he didn't know was coming…

The world blurred and spun around him. Caleb wanted to cry out, to break free. His voice stuck. He was trapped in a body that wasn't his, bound to memories he didn't want to see.

Was this how Molly had felt in the beginning? Trapped and terrified, trespasser in his own body?

Caleb didn't have long to examine this thought, because next thing he knew he was falling back to earth. Or not earth... somewhere else. The sky was full of fire, grass burnt and brown under his feet. He wore dark leather and held two scimitars. The swords were bare and unpolished, the hilts unadorned. Utility over beauty.

Someone stood behind him. Multiple someones, but he couldn't turn to face them. He took a step forward and suddenly the air around him burst into flames. The inferno swallowed him; next thing he knew, he was kneeling on fresh green grass, the moon's soft light kissing his upturned face. The light was so beautiful, he thought. The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Everything shifted. The grass and moonlight faded. They were replaced by a hallway, long and carpeted by an elegant strip of red velvet stretching from the double doors all the way to the foot of a stone dais. Elevated on the dais was a throne. Lucien approached, and Caleb was able to make out the throne’s rough, odd shape. It took him a moment to realize that it was made of bones. Bones of all shapes and sizes melded together, singed and twisted like worms in a campfire.

On the throne was a man. Not a man, but a devil, ruby-skinned with cold, blank golden eyes. "Lucien."

“Asmodeus."

"Why are you here? You should be out in the fields training."

"I’m going to try it again."

"Try what?"

"The Burn."

Asmodeus snorted. He shook his head. "Bensozia handles your training. You should be asking her."

"I hate Bensozia."

"You hate me."

"That's fair."

A beat of uncomfortable silence. And then, "If you want something, take it. That's the way of the underworld, child."

"I'm not a fucking child."

"Then stop acting like one."

Lucien snarled. The sound reverberated through the hollow hallway. "You know, you shouldn't be teaching me all this stuff. I'm gonna use it against you once I get out of this fucking place."

"Who says you're getting out?"

"I do. And when I leave, no one in this shithole can stop me."

Asmodeus smiled. "There's that fighting spirit. Go ask your mother about the Burn. She'll tell you if you're ready to try again."

"That fucking monster is _not_ my mother. I'd rather die than call her that."

Asmodeus chuckled. He waved Lucien away. "You're so dramatic. You know what I mean."

For a moment, Caleb felt anger surge around him, white-hot and nearly unquenchable. But Lucien forced it down. A molten globe of pure fury condensed in his chest, burning his insides and lighting a cold fire in his veins. "I'm leaving." There was a weight behind the words that went beyond the present situation. "Fuck you, Asmodeus. Someday you’re gonna regret this. All of this.”

Asmodeus's laughter followed Lucien as he spun on one heel and walked back through the double doors. "We’ll see," Asmodeus called after him. "We’ll see."

° ° °

The scene changed. This time it was only pieces, clips of half-remembered moments and faces passing like stars between storm clouds. The smell of sulfur burned his throat and lungs. The air was hot, dry, as if it wanted to catch fire but didn't have the fuel. Spires of stone like bent fingers strained toward a bloody sky. A river of molten ice crept by, its murky depths full of blue corpses with blank eyes. A field of cracked dirt and ash, the glow of magma seeping through gouges in the parched earth, the red glow staining the smoky sky...

Through the fog, a figure emerged. Her body was wreathed in a flaming cloak that hovered around her shoulders and licked at her boots. Her skin was lilac, her eyes pupiless and white. As she got closer, Caleb wanted to look away, terrified by the invasive, blinding intent behind those fragments of piercing white light. The devil smiled. Her fangs flashed, as bright white as her eyes.

"You're ready." Her voice was smooth, heavily accented. She smiled, reaching out with elegant gloved hands to cup Lucien's face. Caleb felt Lucien’s anger, his hatred, his panic and desire to slip away. To hit her, to scream, to do anything at all. He was frozen by her touch, ensnared by her eyes, her voice piercing his mind. "Asmodeus doesn't believe in you, but I do. Take the other eight and go. If you don't leave now, you'll be here forever. The longer you stay, the fonder my husband grows. He'll lose track of his purpose— _your_ purpose—in order to protect you." She flashed her fangs again. "He's soft. You're strong." She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Someday, I believe you'll be the one to do it. We may not get along now, but we agree on one thing, and it's enough. Enough for me to care what happens to you."

"I didn't make it across the Burn." Lucien's words came out slightly slurred. As if the paralysis holding him was affecting his tongue. "How d'you think I'll make it through eight fucking Hells?"

The white-eyed devil smiled—a parody of feeling. She leaned in. “The others will protect you.” Through Lucien's memories, Caleb smelled blood on her breath, lips painted red. "Love is the greatest form of violence, and they love you more than anything, my child."

Anger surged. Lucien broke away. The spell splintered, sharp edges sinking into his mind before melting. "I'm not your child." His tail lashed. It was a strange feeling for Caleb, who, even through the chaos and confusion, was startled by the unusual sensation. "I had a mother. You stole me from her."

The lavender devil laughed. "Bensozia's child. That's what they'll call you." She touched his cheek. "Lavender skin, blood of the Infernal Queen. A warrior forged in the fires of hell."

Lucien backed away. He shook, blinking rapidly, hands clenched around nothing. "You think you own me. Fuck you. I don't belong to anyone."

"Then go. Find your freedom. But don't forget where you came from. What you're for."

Lucien tilted his chin up. Eyes open, shoulders back, tail tip twitching. "I've heard that devils wear many masks." A flash of fangs, the hint of a cold smile. "Careful, Bensozia. Yours is slipping."

Lucien turned and walked away. As he did, the scene changed. The dry, burning plains and ashy sky faded away. In its place came a thick, hazy darkness that wrapped around Caleb's mind like a traveler's woolen cloak.

Caleb blinked. Or Lucien did; he no longer knew where one began and the other ended. Everything was fuzzy. There was a sweet, familiar smell, like liquid moonlight in a silver chalice. Lucien looked up, and Caleb saw a face, faded and blurred around the edges, smiling down at him. A tiefling woman with lavender skin and red eyes, tears streaking her cheeks as she leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Lucien's forehead. " _Lohshehk’ehn_ ,” she whispered. “My little light.”

"Can you tell me the story again?" Lucien's voice was strange. Higher, more thickly accented. Softer, without a trace of the bitterness Caleb had heard earlier. 

Lucien reached up to capture the woman's face between his small child's hands. "Tell me about the goddess who lives in the moon. Is she up there right now, watching us? Can she see me when I do this?" Lucien slapped his hands against his mother's cheeks. She made a startled sound, then laughed, the sound thick with unshed tears.

"Little love, the Moonweaver will never leave us."

"What if I want her to leave? What if I wanna do something I'm not supposed to, and she shouldn't be looking?"

Another soft, fond laugh. "She won't judge you, darling. She has a mischievous side, too." The tiefling woman pressed another kiss to her son's forehead. "Which is why she loves you so much, hmmm?"

Lucien traced the gentle curving lines of silver and gold inked under his mother's skin, following the soft curve of the moon from the crest of her cheek to the tip of her chin. His hands rose to her horns, thick and curved back like a gazelle's, coming to two narrow, slightly inward-pointed tips over the crest of her black-haired head. The purple horns were also marked with silver: an arrow along each outer side, one pointing up, the other down. He returned to the tattoo on her face. "Can you make me look like this? Can I get one of these, too?"

Lucien's mother blinked rapidly. "You're too young."

"You're not in charge of me."

"I'm your mother."

"So what? I wanna have something, too. Something about the Moonweaver so I never forget her." Lucien spread his hands over his mother's elegant, curving cheekbones. "Please, Mommy."

His mother shook her head. "Why would you forget?" She sighed. One hand came up, trapping Lucien's hand against her face. "Okay," she said. "But only a little one where no one can see it. You can't let anyone know about the goddess who lives in the moon, okay?"

Lucien nodded enthusiastically. "How about on the back of my neck? No one will ever look there."

"Alright. Tomorrow I'll find someone to do it."

"Can we go to the city center to do it?"

"No."

"Why?"

"It's too dangerous. Once you're old enough..." She faded off, blinking rapidly, and stood up, pulling away. "It's time for bed. Tomorrow is a big day." Her smile was sad, eyes full of barely veiled grief. She drew a hand over her eyes. "Do you want me to tuck you in?"

Lucien nodded. He crossed to his thin sleeping roll, sprawling on it as if it were the most luxurious bed a queen could hope to own. "Can you tell me another story tomorrow?"

Lucien's mother knelt beside him. She pulled the worn blankets up to his chin, smiling as she leaned down to kiss his forehead. When she pulled back, her face was unreadable. "Everyone makes their own stories, Lucien. Yours is just beginning." A pause. "Whatever happens, I want you to know that I love you, and only want what's best for you. You don't belong to anyone, little light. You are you, and the rest of the world will just have to deal with it.”

Lucien blinked. A warm, soft sleepiness came over him. He smiled. "Okay, Mommy. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Lucien." A warm, gentle smile, soft lips and kind eyes. "Dream of light and love. Of moonlight on calm waters and all the things that make you smile." Lucien's mother stroked his hair back, tucking a strand behind one of his small, half-grown horns. "I love you, little light. Forever and always."

The world shifted. Everything went dark. Caleb tumbled through time and space, dizzy and confused, spinning aimlessly until suddenly he felt cold dirt under his knees, ice in his veins and fire at his fingertips. His eyes snapped open. He was back in the basement of the little shack, shaking and covered in cold sweat, staring into Mollymauk’s vivid red eyes.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a whole-ass year since Molly's death and I'm nowhere near over it. Long may you reign, you beautiful bastard.


	14. Part II Chapter XIV: New Beginnings

****

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

****

**NEW BEGINNINGS**

“It worked. The ritual worked.”

Caleb emerged from the basement looking like he'd just gotten back from an all-night bender. Nott ran to his side as Molly greeted the others, their shaky laughter mingling with tears of relief. She took Caleb's hand, noting the way his curled fingers shook, and stood beside him until the conversations died down and the sun’s light faded between cracks in rotting walls.

Fjord, Jester, and Beau ended up on the bed, Jester in the middle and Beau facing the wall. Molly fell asleep on the couch; Yasha lay beside him, sword within reach, multicolored eyes fixed on his peaceful sleeping face. Caleb curled on the armchair, staring into the dying ashes of the fire. Nott crawled up into the space between Caleb's body and the armrest, curling herself against him, hoping her presence would be at least somewhat comforting.

After that, they stayed in the shack for one more night. They gathered all the food and supplies they could and set out into the rising dawn.

It was a day's journey back to Shady Creek Run, but according to Caleb’s uncanny time sense, they managed it in seventeen hours. Nott felt the tension strung between the rest of the Mighty Nein, all the unspoken questions and worries and fears left unsaid between bursts of half-hearted conversation as they trekked across the barren, snow-clad landscape.

Nott noticed that Caleb had been unusually silent since the ritual in the shack. Caleb was usually closed off and quiet, of course, but this was different. Nott couldn't put her finger on it, and she didn't want to make it worse by asking uncomfortable questions. Only Caleb and Molly knew what had happened in that basement; judging by their silence, it would stay that way.

Yasha hadn't left Molly's side since he'd come back to himself. Memories restored, he'd thrown himself back into his familiar carefree attitude, and yet there was a wary weariness that clung to him like the shadowed suit N.V. had dressed him in. Yasha had given back his coat, still filthy and bloodstained, and he hadn't taken it off since. Nott noticed that his smile faded when he thought no one was watching, a pained, haunted expression replacing his calm and cheer. She didn't mention it to anyone—especially not to Molly—but she noticed a lot of things others might miss. She was used to reading Caleb's moods; she'd come to understand and recognize the many ways that people carried their pain, and the many ways they tried to hide it.

They kept their hoods up and their heads down as they made their way past the Sour Nest and through the back entrance of Shadycreek Run. The streets were dark, beggars hunched in shadow-cloaked alleys and abandoned, crumbling buildings. The chill of winter was fading, but in the far north, even the promise of spring did little to chase away the clinging cold.

The least-conspicuous tavern in town was loud and crowded when the Mighty Nein made their way inside. Every table but one was full. 

Fjord stopped just inside the door, carefully scanning the room. He motioned for the others to enter. Nott slipped between Jester and Beau, following Caleb to the table. 

"I'll get us rooms," said Jester. "Just three, right?" Yasha nodded, heading toward the bar.

Nott sat next to Caleb as the rest of the party settled around the round table. Beau sat next to Yasha, and Yasha sat next to Molly. Caleb sat between Nott and Fjord, his hands folded on the table, his hazy, distant gaze fixed on his intertwined fingers. Jester returned moments later, sliding her chair up between Nott and Molly. She pulled off her hood, shaking out her hair. "This is so nice." She beamed around the table. "I can't believe we pulled that off, you guys."

Caleb made a face. His lips were drawn into a tight line, his whole body rigid and tense. He almost looked like he was in pain. Nott made a mental note to check in with him once they settled into their rooms for the night.

Fjord ordered a round for the table. Yasha drank three ales in five minutes and, clearly exhausted and disoriented, allowed Jester to guide her off to one of their rooms. As she went, she stopped and put a hand on the back of Beau’s chair, knuckles white as she used it to keep herself upright. She leaned down, expression serious, matted and braided hair falling around her face. “Beau.”

Beau almost spilled her drink. She spun around in her chair, staring wide-eyed up at Yasha. “Uh, yeah? What’s up?”

Yasha leaned down and whispered, “Keep an eye on him tonight, please?”

Nott watched emotions cross Beau’s face like a flock of little birds flying against a strong wind. Surprise, confusion, understanding. Although she knew she shouldn’t, Nott leaned in closer, pretending to reach for her flask. “Yeah, of course, Yasha.” Beau’s voice was unusually soft. “Don’t worry about it.”

Yasha hesitated for a moment. Jester tugged on her sleeve, leaning in. “Come on, Yasha. You’re super wasted right now; I don’t want you to fall on your face right here in front of all these people.”

Beau turned back to her drink. Her usual brash, loud voice rose over the din. She flashed a grin, raising her tankard in a tipsy salute. “Night, Yasha. We’ll miss you.” 

“Night,” said Yasha. “Try not to embarrass yourselves too much.”

Fjord scoffed. “This lot? Embarrass themselves? Inconceivable.” 

Beau snorted. She took another long drink of ale. Or tried to—her tankard appeared empty; she pointed at Yasha’s half-full tankard, still sitting on the table. “You mind if I…?”

Yasha shook her head. “No, I’m done. Help yourself.” Beau took the ale, and Yasha turned away. Jester led her into the crowd, headed for the stairway leading down to their rooms. The crowd parted around them, eyeing them both with varying degrees of spite and wariness. Nott felt a surge of anger on her friends’ behalves. All these murderers, rapists, mercenaries, thieves. How dare they judge anyone for the way they looked? For the language they spoke, or the crimes of their ancestors? In her drunken state, Nott considered getting up and starting some shit. But then she heard Caleb sigh wearily, and reigned it in. There was no point. Stirring things up in the town where the Iron Shepherds had operated was just asking for trouble. After everything her friends had been through, trouble was the last thing they needed.

“Caleb.” Nott reached over and touched Caleb’s bandage-wrapped arm. “Are you ready to turn in for the night?”

Caleb, who was still staring at his folded hands, shook himself. He inhaled sharply, turning to Nott with the smallest hint of a smile. He nodded. “ _Ja_ , okay. I didn’t hear which room is ours, but I assume it will be whichever one is empty.”

Nott stood up. Caleb pushed back his chair and glanced around at the other patrons, many of whom were eying Nott suspiciously. Nott ducked her head, pulling down her hood and adjusting her mask. “Come on.” Caleb touched her shoulder, urging her forward. The crowd parted as they passed, just as they had for Jester and Yasha. Anger surged through Nott again. As if sensing her anger, Caleb shielded her with his body until they reached the stairs. “Do not mind them,” he said. “What they feel about people they don’t know is their problem, not ours.”

 _Not if they break into our rooms and slit our throats in the night,_ Nott almost said. But Caleb looked anxious enough without that possibility weighing on his mind. There was no point rubbing salt in an open wound.

As they set down their meager supplies and weapons and arranged themselves in the two small, moth-eaten beds, Nott turned to Caleb. “Caleb. Are you alright?”

“Am I ever?” Caleb’s tone was just unironic enough to be worrying.

“I know I’ve said this before, but you’re always welcome to talk to me whenever you want, about whatever you want.”

“I know. _Danke,_ Nott.”

There was a long silence. And then, “What happened? In that shack?” Before Caleb could do more than open his mouth, Nott cut him off. “I know something’s been bothering you, Caleb. More than usual. You’ve been—” she searched for the right word, “— _hazy._ Kind of tuned out, you know? Like a bad signal.”

In the faint light of a guttering candle, Caleb smiled slightly. He wasn’t looking at Nott. He was on his back, face tilted toward her, gaze cast up toward the peeling ceiling. He inhaled, and his smile fell away. “I’m not sure I did it correctly.”

Nott frowned. “The ritual, you mean? Why? Molly remembers us, doesn’t he?” A horrible thought occurred to her, and she sat bolt upright, eyes wide and hands clenched into fists. “Oh no! What if he’s just pretending to know us because he’s a secret spy for the Empire now? Or for Xhorhas? Or—” 

“Nott. _Nott_. Mollymauk’s memories were restored. He is himself, as far as I know.”

“Then what’s the big fuss about? Why do you think you failed? You’ve never failed at magic. Not like that, at least.”

Caleb was silent for a worrying long time. His breath was shaky, each inhale loud in the stillness. “I was inside his head, Nott. I saw things that I should not have.”

“You mean… you mean his memories, don’t you?”

Caleb flinched. “Yes.” His voice was barely audible.

“What memories? What did you see? Is that what’s been bothering you?”

“I saw many things. But I can’t know how much of it was real. It all went so fast, and Mollymauk doesn’t seem to remember the things that I saw. I know he did not want to, before. Fjord thinks it would be better to keep his past from him. To spare him from what he was. But is it the right thing, Nott? Should I make that decision for him?”

Nott bit her lip. “Well, I don’t really know. You could tell him that you saw some things, and ask if he wants to know?”

Caleb exhaled. When he spoke again, he sounded resigned, defeated. “He will want to know. And once he does, he will want answers. What if searching for those answers gets us all killed?”

“He’s already searching for answers. That’s why we’re going to Rexxentrum, isn’t it?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“So you’re going to keep it a secret?”

“I don’t know yet. If we reach Rexxentrum and Otis does not tell Mollymauk himself, then I will consider doing so.”

Nott contemplated this for a long time. Sorting through possibilities and probabilities. “You don’t want to be the one to tell him,” she said at last. “You’re afraid he’ll hate you for it.”

Caleb didn’t reply. In a way, that was more of an answer than anything.

“No matter what happens,” Nott said, “I support your decision. I trust you, Caleb. You’re the smartest person I know. I believe you’ll do what’s right, in the end.”

Caleb turned and looked at her for the first time since leaving the tavern. “I don’t deserve you,” he said softly.

Nott pushed off her covers and crossed the room. She scrambled up onto his bed, throwing her arms around him, face buried in his shoulder. “You spend so much time hating yourself. I’m just trying to make up for it.”

Caleb didn’t reply. Nott didn’t expect him to. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, and they stayed like that until the candle guttered out and the darkness wrapped around them like a traveler’s cloak.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Beau stayed up until everyone but Molly and Fjord had gone to bed. The bar had emptied; with the early hours of the morning fast approaching, most of the rabble had either made their way downstairs or cleared out into the streets.

Finishing the last of his drink, Fjord stood up. "I'm gonna say goodnight before it's mornin'. You two should probably think about doin' the same." Standing behind Molly, just out of view, he gave Beau a meaningful look. "No point stayin' up for no reason. You're gonna be hung over tomorrow whether you sleep or not."

Beau leaned back in her chair, shoulders slumped, head tilted back. "Uhhgn, fine." She raised her eyebrows at Molly, who was staring blankly into his empty shot glass. "Hey!" She leaned forward and snapped her fingers in front of his face. He jolted, blinking rapidly as he glanced up, looking startled. "You going to bed, or what?"

Molly’s smile was frayed around the edges, tense shoulders belying his constructed calm. "I think I'll stay down here for now. You don't need to watch me; Yasha's just being overprotective."

Fjord frowned. "You gotta admit, it's justified."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Is it? I'm not a child, regardless of how much I do or don't remember. I can handle myself." He smirked. "Poor choice of phrasing, but also true. Although it’s not my preferred method of getting off."

"Eww, gross, Molly," said Beau. “You’re extra annoying when you’re drunk.” She wrinkled her nose, making a face. "Gods, I feel like shit."

Molly reached for his sixth shot of whiskey in an hour. "And you look it, too." He downed it in one go.

"Fuck you."

Molly grinned, eyes glazed and hazy from drink and the lateness of the hour. "Fuck you too, Beau."

Fjord heaved a sigh, rubbing his face with both hands. "Y'all can do what you want, but I'm goin' to bed." He raised a hand in a half-hearted wave as he headed for the stairs, unsteady but relatively upright.

"'Night, Fjord. I'll keep Molly from making a shitload of noise when he stumbles into your room at fuck o'clock in the morning."

"It's already fuck o'clock in the mornin'," Fjord muttered as he disappeared upstairs, leaving Molly and Beau alone in the bar. The barkeep had retreated into her back room almost an hour before, and the mercenaries and shady stragglers had made their way out into the streets as the alcohol ran low and the hour grew late. The remnants of a low-burning fire glowed dully in the hearth. The smell of stale sweat and spilled beer hung heavy in the air.

Beau slapped a hand down on the table. "So," she said, "you wanna actually talk about what the fuck's going on with you?"

"Mmm, not really." Molly reached for his seventh and final shot. He nearly knocked it over, hands clumsy and shaking. "I prefer to deal with my problems the old-fashioned way." He smiled an ironic smile and downed the shot. 

Beau considered pushing the issue, then decided against it. "Cool, cool," she said. “I don’t wanna talk about feelings, either."

A long silence. Molly stacked the shot glasses, usually dexterous fingers trembling as he propped them up and arranged them. Against all odds, he built a little tower and sat back, expression tired but satisfied.

"Hey, Molly?" 

"Yes, Beau?"

Beau reached for the travel pouch tied at her waist. She dug out Molly's tarot deck and spread it on the table, an evenly spaced crescent of cards, some bent and muddied by travel, a few stained red, the corners folding under the weight of long-dried blood. "Pick a card, any card."

Molly gently moved the tower of glasses aside. He leaned in, gripping the edge of the table. "Huh. Thought I'd lost those." His voice was wistful. A hint of something soft and just a little sad clung to his words. There was vulnerability in his eyes, a rawness that the alcohol had brought out. "D’you want me to pick the cards, or will you?"

Beau shrugged. "You're the one who did this for a living, man. You tell me."

Molly looked thoughtful for a long moment, chin cupped in one hand, elbow planted on the table. "Well, I usually pick the cards."

"Because they're marked?" Beau smirked as Molly's expression betrayed resigned irritation.

"Only some of them, to help accentuate my skills."

"I literally had them for months, and they’re all marked. Don't try to bullshit me, Mollymauk. You’re the fuckin’ worst at it.”

"I may be a bloody awful liar, but I'm an excellent fortune teller.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Unless you plan on sitting around insulting me until the sun comes up—which won’t be long now—take my advice and pull the cards yourself."

Beau shook her head. She felt fuzzy, senses dull, head spinning from sleeplessness and drink. "Don't you have to ask me a question or something? Before I do the reading, so the fuckin' spirits or whatever can weigh in?"

Molly shrugged. "That's one way to do it. There're a number of possible spreads. It really comes down to whatever you feel will be the most convincing presentation."

Beau ran her fingers over the spread, the cards’ edges sharp under her fingertips. She paused near the center. With one finger, she extracted a card and flipped it over, slapping it down on the table. "The Ace of Cups,” she said. “That means you’re gonna get fuckin’ wasted instead of actually dealing with your problems.”

Molly held up a finger, opened his mouth, then let his hand fall back onto the table. “Fair enough. Continue.”

“The Queen of Swords. Which I’d say represents Yasha.” She held the card up in the dim light. The Queen of Swords stood with her blade in her hands, piercing hazel eyes staring stoically ahead. “So, protection and strength.”

“And beauty,” Molly said, with a hint of a smirk. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, and that. Shut up.”

Molly genuinely smiled, and Beau claimed a secret victory. He leaned in, elbows planted on the table, hazy red eyes gleaming. “Doing well so far. Now tell me something about my future.”

Beau contemplated the cards. She hadn’t memorized them all, but she was getting close. In the dark, lonely nights when even the stars hid behind lingering grey clouds, she’d spread them before her, searching desperately for patterns in the chaos. With slightly shaky fingers, she plucked out a card from the exact middle of the deck. She threw it down between them. “The Sun,” she said.

“No,” Molly said. “It’s not.”

Beau looked down. Wreathed in shadow, crumbling to ruins, was The Tower, reversed. It faced her, ominous as storm clouds over mountain peaks. For a long moment she stared unblinkingly, frowning. Then she shook herself. “Ah, fuck. Must’a mixed those up. I was going for The Sun.”

Molly stood up suddenly. He almost fell, clutching the table for support. Beau dove past him and caught the tower of glasses as they cascaded to the ground. She caught three in each hand, but the seventh slipped through her fingers. It fell at her feet and shattered. The splinters spread across the floor, tiny crystal shards reflecting the dying firelight. 

“Sorry. Oh, fuck.” Molly tried to stand on his own and failed, hands spread against the tabletop. He was shaking worse than before, and Beau had a feeling it wasn’t just from drinking. He ducked his head, eyes closed. “Just… go to bed, Beau. Leave the cards. Just…” He made a broad, sharp gesture. “ _Leave_.”

Beau considered doing so, but in the end her stubbornness won out. Crossing her arms, she glared at him. “You think you can just tell me what to do? I’ll go to bed when I damn well feel like it.”

Molly claws left deep gouges in the beer-spattered wood. “Fine. _Fine_.” He pushed off from the table, taking a few steps toward the tavern door. Somehow, he made it across the room without falling, climbing the steps and pushing his way past the door. He disappeared into the cold night air beyond.

“Ah, fuck.” Beau scrubbed a hand over her face. “You’re gonna freeze out there, asshole!” There was no reply. Half-heartedly punching the table and kicking aside the shattered remnants of the broken glass, she followed Molly into the night.

As she stepped over the threshold, the starless sky fell like an avalanche around her. At first, she thought Molly was gone. But then she saw him disappear into the alleyway across the street. Beau swore under her breath, fog wreathing her face like pipe smoke. She followed Molly.

It was just light enough to make out Molly’s dark outline in the blackness. “Hey, Molly. What the fuck, dude?”

Molly stumbled. He caught himself with one hand against the alley wall. In the narrow space, his breathing was ragged, harsh. He didn’t respond. Frowning, she took another step closer. As she did, she stepped on the fragments of an old bottle. It crunched, shattering under her boot. Molly tripped, falling to his knees, hands fisted in his hair, head down in the darkness. “No,” he snarled. “Go away.”

For a moment, Beau thought he was talking to her. “Fine, if you wanna be a dramatic dickhead about this, whatever. But don’t come crying to me when your fingers fall off from frostbite.” She turned to walk away. 

“ _Don’t,_ ” Molly hissed, vicious, harsh—a snake spitting venom. Beau turned back toward him, hands clenched, expecting to see him watching her. He wasn’t. He was still on his knees, arms wrapped around himself, facing away. 

Overhead, the clouds broke. Moonlight spilled into the alley. Molly lifted his chin, tilting his head back. In the faint light, the gilded tips of his horns flashed silver and gold. But then the moment passed. The clouds crowded each other, obscuring the silver crescent. Molly pitched forward, head dropping, and hissed under his breath. “ _Ahk’rehvahsh krehk’ahtahk’ehvehk rai kahk’ehsh mahvrahsh ehk’ehsh…_ ”

Beau flinched, covering her ears. “Ow, fuck!” She considered going back and getting Yasha. If anyone knew how to deal with this, it would be her. But she couldn’t leave Molly alone in this state. The streets and alleys of Shadycreek Run were swarming with cutthroats and thieves, not to mention the very real possibility that he would run away to escape whatever imaginary monsters were hunting him. If he wandered off and ended up hurt or dead, Beau would never forgive herself. She’d barely begun to forgive herself for the first time. 

Beau slammed her palm against the alley wall. She set her jaw, gritting her teeth. Why, she found herself wondering, was it so much harder to comfort someone than to protect them? If it was a physical attacker, she’d be on it immediately. She’d do whatever it took to kick their ass and send them packing. But this assailant was inside Molly’s head, and that was the exact opposite of her specialty.

“Fuck,” she muttered, and walked down the alley until she was five feet from Molly. “Hey.” No response. He was still muttering in Infernal. The violence was gone, his voice flat and toneless. “ _Hey_. Molly. Can you hear me?”

“Beau.”

“Yeah, dumbass, it’s me.”

“Yasha.”

“You want me to get Yasha? I can, but you have to stay right here while I—”

“Fjord.”

Beau crossed her arms, frowning. “Wait, _Fjord?_ What…?” And then it dawned on her. Her heart plummeted. She clenched her fists so tight her nails dug into her skin. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but just like the night in the snow, she wasn’t sure how he’d react. Bare seconds ago, he’d been hissing in Infernal; now, he sounded mechanical, flat, passive. Empty.

“Jester.”

“Molly.”

“Nott.”

“ _Molly._ ”

“Beau.”

“God fucking damn it, Molly!”

“Caleb.”

He fell against the alley wall, curling into himself like a cat.

Beau knelt beside him. “Hey.” She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. He pulled away, turning to glare at her, red eyes glowing in the darkness. “Hey, what the fuck’s going on with you? Talk to me.”

“Don’t.” Molly’s expression was flat, empty. But his eyes, fixed unseeingly on Beau’s face, were full of confusion and panic. 

“Don’t _what?_ C’mon, man, give me something to work with here.”

Molly tried to pull away again. Beau let him. She threw up her hands, but didn’t stand up. Frustration pounded her heart and tingled in her hands. She pushed it away, focusing on managing the situation rather than escalating it. “Alright, how about this? You tell me how to help you, and I don’t leave your ass alone in a dark alley in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere?”

Molly blinked. His gaze cleared a bit. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and raised his hands to his chest, fingers clenching around the thin, dirty fabric of his shirt. “ _Vahrahk’ahsh_ ,” he hissed. “ _Vehrehk’ahn kehrahk’sh ssesh kehsh kahrehk’ai…_ ”

Beau grit her teeth. “Common, Molly, speak Common! Shit, fuck, ow, my ears.”

Beau smelled blood. It took her a moment to realize that Molly had cut himself, claws leaving fresh red marks over pale purple scars. Ice crept up his arms, crystals spikes sprouting from his claws. His breathing sped again, and even though they were a couple feet apart, she could tell he was tense, ready. 

_Fuck it,_ thought Beau, and grabbed Molly’s wrists, pulling them away from his chest. Ice crystals dug into her palms, melting between her fingers. “Listen up,” she said in the closest thing to a gentle tone she could muster. “I know I give you a lot of shit, and you deserve all of it, but I care about you, you annoying dickhead. So if you can hear me, stop. It’s over. N.V.’s dead. Otis is gone. It’s just us. So stop this shit and let me take you back inside before we both freeze our literal asses off. Alright?”

Molly closed his eyes. Under Beau’s palms, his pulse raced, spiking and falling so rapidly she was surprised he hadn’t passed out. “Beau,” he said. 

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t start with that shit again.”

“ _Beau._ I need… I want you to…” Molly made a frustrated sound. He shook his head. “ _Fuck._ ”

Beau wanted to make a sarcastic comment, to turn it into a joke. Instead, she let go of Molly’s wrists and gripped him by the shoulders. “You want me to get Yasha?”

Molly shook his head again. “No. No, I just… can I… can you…?”

“What? You’re gonna have to use words, Molly, ‘cuz I’m not a goddamn mind reader like some people claim to be.”

Molly cursed under his breath. “I’m… it’s like I’m not _here_ ,” he said at last. “I’m not in my body, Beau, it’s like it’s not even mine.”

For a long moment she stared at him, confused and more than a little disturbed. Then it clicked into place, and with a loud, long sigh, she grabbed him by the front of his coat and pulled him against her. “C’mere.” She put an arm awkwardly around his shoulders and he pressed his face into her robe. She squeezed tight, applying as much pressure as possible. After a few long moments, she asked, “Any better?”

He didn’t reply. She hadn’t expected him to. However, he didn’t feel as tense, and his breathing was evening out. 

“Just so you know,” she said, fingers clenched in the rich red fabric of his coat, “this is way more embarrassing for you than for me. Just for the record.”

Molly laughed. Not a real laugh, but close enough. “It’s not embarrassing for either of us if no one knows it happened.”

“Blackmail,” said Beau. “Better watch your ass, Mollymauk Tealeaf.”

After a few more seconds, Molly sat up. He wouldn’t meet Beau’s eyes. “This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this, I didn’t want you to have to—”

“Molly, shut up.”

He looked at her then, really looked, head tilted to one side. He opened his mouth, seemingly struggling for the right words, before sighing defeatedly. “Thank you.” His sincerity surprised her. “I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me jack shit.” She staggered to her feet, bracing herself against the wall before offering him a hand up. “C’mon. The ground’s fuckin’ nasty.”

As they made their way back out of the alley toward the faded light of the inn, Molly shot Beau a sideways smile. “Fortune teller,” he said.

“What?”

“Not a mind reader. I’m a fortune teller.”

She rolled her eyes, faking irritation as the tightness in her chest released. “Whatever. You expect me to think of the perfect words in the middle of a shit-show like that?”

“Fair enough.”

They reached the tavern door. Beau shoved it open, and they stumbled back into the relative warmth of the inn. Beau rubbed her bare upper arms, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. “Fuck. I can’t wait to get under a thousand blankets right now.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Molly turned and looked back. Beau followed his gaze to the shattered glass on the dented hardwood floor. “Hey.” She gave him a gentle shove in the shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

Molly turned to her. She caught a brief glimpse of the haunted look on his face before he smiled, shaking himself. “Don’t worry about it. Things just happen sometimes. I’ll bounce back, eventually. I always do.”

“Yeah. Alright, cool. I’m gonna…” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the stairs leading to their rooms. “Are you…?”

Molly shook his head. “No point. Sun’ll be up in an hour, maybe less.”

“Fine,” said Beau, “but if I come down here in the morning and find you passed out from alcohol poisoning, I’m gonna kick your ass so hard your ghost will have bruises.”

Molly smirked, turning away. As he walked back toward the old, battered table, he glanced at her over his shoulder. There was a softness in his expression that hadn’t been there before. “I care about you too, you know.” 

Beau stood frozen in the stairway for a long moment. Then she turned and started down the stairs. “’Night, Molly. Try not to drink the entire bar.”

Faintly, she heard his soft laughter, followed by the clink of glass on glass, of whiskey falling and splashing like a little waterfall.

° ° °

The next morning when she emerged from her room, yawning and blinking against the torchlight filling the hall, she stepped on a bent tarot card lying face-down outside her door. She stooped and picked it up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She turned it over.

A warrior woman sat astride a lioness, spear in one hand and shield in the other. _Strength_ , the title said. And under that, scrawled in barely legible handwriting, _Thank you._

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

The party set out the next morning having slept anywhere from two to ten hours. They bought a newer, better cart and two horses and made their way out of Shadycreek Run in somber silence. As they passed through the gates and onto the open road, Molly sat at the back of the cart, legs crossed under him, watching the sun rise sluggishly over distant snow-clad peaks. The height of winter was fading. Spring was coming; he could smell it in the air, in the soft fragrant breeze ghosting over the land like a flock of brightly colored birds. A promise of warmth and new beginnings.

They passed his grave marker around evening of the second day. The post stood at an angle, crooked and dented and forlorn. All around the disturbed dirt, daffodils spread bright, golden petals. The cart crawled to a halt. Jester jumped out and Yasha followed. Yasha knelt by the grave. Jester approached, but Yasha held up a hand, warning her back. "Give me a moment." Even across the short distance, Molly barely caught her hushed words.

Jester backed off. They all sat in silence until Yasha straightened up, hands cupping something Molly couldn't see. As Yasha walked back toward the cart, Molly stepped down and met her halfway. "You okay, darling?"

Yasha turned her body, shielding her hands from the eyes of the others. Her fingers uncurled. There, nestled in her palms, was a bundle of blue forget-me-nots. Molly reached out and pinched off a few of the stems. He put a hand on Yasha's cheek, holding her head in place as he wove the little blue buds into her braided hair. She looked up at him. There were tears in her eyes. He leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers. "To new beginnings," he whispered. 

"To new beginnings,” she whispered back.

He lifted his head and smiled at her. She smiled back, shaky and unsure. "You look magnificent." He adjusted one of the flowers, patted her cheek, and kissed her on the forehead. 

Turning back to the cart, he found the others staring off in various directions, all looking slightly uncomfortable, as if afraid to intrude on the private intimacy of the moment. Molly tilted his head and grinned, chin up, the soft sunlight creeping between silver clouds glinting off his gilded horns. "Now, if you all wouldn't mind," he said, bright and just a little coy, "I'd love some help finding my fucking swords."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of Part II, and also one of my favorite chapters in the book, writing-it-wise. I love Beau and Molly so much, and their sibling-like relationship is the fuckin best. Here's to sarcastic assholes caring about each other (even if they rarely admit it), and found-family dynamics in general.
> 
> Also, thank you so fucking much to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter!! Y'all are so kind to me, and I'm beyond thrilled that you seem (at least from what I've seen!) to be enjoying this fic so far. Love you! <3


	15. Part III Chapter XV: Into The Lion's Den

**PART THREE: THE BOOK OF THE DAMNED**

**___________**

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**INTO THE LION’S DEN**

Rexxentrum was bigger than Beau remembered. She passed the gates alongside Fjord and Jester, while Yasha, Caleb, and Molly surrounded Nott to hide her from the prying eyes of the Crownsguard. Stepping into the city, Beau was momentarily overloaded by the scents, sounds, and sights. Massive, elegant spires and towers rose toward the pale, eggshell blue sky. She didn’t realize she’d stopped walking until Nott ran into her from behind. 

“Ahhhhh! Fuck, sorry!” Nott moved around her, staring up at her wide-eyed. “Are you okay? Are you having a flashback or something? Did something bad happen to you here? Answer me, Beau!”

Beau shook off the clinging awe and shrugged. “Not really. Just… I forgot how big this place is.”

“Now imagine being me.” Nott pulled her hood down lower. Beau noticed that her hands were shaking as she adjusted her mask and redid the wrappings on her long, slender ears. She glanced around nervously, eyes like full moons beneath the brim of her hood.

Beau put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. We’ve got your back. If anyone tries to start some shit over you being a goblin, I’ll break their fucking nose.”

Behind the mask, Beau couldn’t read Nott’s expression, but she did detect a note of relief in Nott’s voice. “That’s… I mean… thank you, Beau. It’s just… well, I don’t want all of you getting in trouble on my behalf, but it’s good to know that if push comes to shiv, I won’t be dying alone.”

Beau snorted. “Stop being a pessimist. It doesn’t fit you.”

“Oh, so now you have a monopoly on cynicism?”

“It’s my brand, man.”

Nott shook her head. She pulled out her flask and unscrewed the cap, drinking deep. “Well I don’t have to be a pessimist to think that this city is one of the worst places in the world for us right now. But here we are, and it doesn’t seem like there’s any chance of us turning around and heading back the way we came, so I guess it’s time to drink a lot and try to pretend not to be fucking terrified.”

Beau grinned. “Good. Drunk and terrified fits you a lot better than sarcastic and cynical.”

“Oh fuck you, Beau!”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’. You’re smart to be scared of this fucking place. Being cynical doesn’t equal being smart, and you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

Nott fell silent for a long moment. “I guess you’re right,” she said at last. She took another swig of liquor. “Time to buckle up and face this thing head-on. And hope we don’t fucking die in the process.”

“Here’s to not being stupid,” said Beau.

Nott raised her flask. “Aye, aye,” she said, and drank again. “Here’s to unrealistic goals.”

° ° °

The Mighty Nein made their way through crowded, busy streets full of vendors and merchants, past draft horses pulling carts full of goods. It seemed that they’d arrived just in time for a spring festival, and the smell of fresh-cut flowers and the warmth of spring hung heavy and luscious in the air.

“Remind me why we are in this terrible place again?” 

Beau was just close enough to catch Caleb’s whispered words. Nott, the intended recipient of the question, shook her head. “I… I don’t know, Caleb. I mean, we’re here to find that guy who tried to kidnap Molly—Oats? Oaty? Oasis?—in case he knows anything about anyone who might be coming after us.” Nott’s voice sank even lower. Beau had to tilt her head to catch her next words. “Or coming after Lucien, more likely.”

Beau glanced back. Caleb was frowning, brows pinched together, concern written in every line of his face. Concern, and fear. Her heart hurt for him. It must be awful to be in a city full of people he hated and feared so much. She wanted to drop back, to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him it would be fine, that they’d protect him, but she didn’t want to admit to eavesdropping. Besides, she thought as Nott reached for Caleb’s hand, holding tight, Caleb had all the support he needed.

° ° °

They reached the Smiling Fish Inn at nightfall. They’d been on the road for days with only brief rests in between, taking turns driving and sleeping in the back of the cart, intermittent bursts of rain keeping them awake throughout. They were all eager to get some sleep. They’d agreed to look for Otis the next morning. Now that Molly’s memories had been restored, finding Otis was critical. If he had any information that could help Molly avoid further entanglements with Lucien’s past, it was worth the risk of coming to Rexxentrum to find him.

Fjord went up to the bar to pay for the rooms. There was a silent agreement that they wouldn’t be drinking tonight, so they ordered some dried meats and fruits, as well as cheese and bread, and went off to their various rooms. Beau settled in with Jester, as usual, while Nott and Caleb immediately disappeared into their room. This left Fjord, Molly, and Yasha together in the third room. Beau guessed that Molly and Yasha would both prefer not to be apart right now, and Fjord would be more than happy to have a bed to himself.

“Beau?” Jester whispered in the darkness. Beau rolled over to face her. In the dim moonlight ghosting through cracks in the curtains, she could just make out Jester’s expression—her usual cheer had fallen away like a discarded cloak, leaving behind a soft, unveiled sadness.

Beau propped herself up on a pillow, resting her cheek in her palm. “Jester, you okay? What’s up?”

Jester shook her head. Even in the creeping dark, where emotions seemed somehow more and less dangerous, she wouldn’t meet Beau’s gaze. “Have you ever ruined something so important to you that you feel like you’ll never get your heart back? Like, you maybe went too far and said too much, and you should have just shut up and not said anything at all?”

Beau frowned. “Uhhhh… maybe? No, wait, I dunno. What’s this about?”

A long silence. Jester drew a hand across her face. Beau realized she was crying; in an instant, Beau was on her feet, crossing the room to sit next to Jester on her bed. “Hey.” She laid a hand on Jester’s shoulder. She held her breath for a second, hoping she wasn’t overstepping any boundaries. “Talk to me.”

To her surprise—which, in retrospect, shouldn’t have been a surprise at all—Jester turned and wrapped her arms around Beau, burying her face in the crook of Beau’s neck. “I told Fjord I love him. I told him that because he almost _died_ , Beau, and I just couldn’t let him die not knowing that.” She sobbed, breath hitching, shaking in Beau’s arms. “I’m so stupid sometimes. Why couldn’t I just let it go? Why did I tell him that when there’s no way he likes me like that?”

“Wha…? Wait, are you being fuckin’ serious right now?” 

The sharpness of Beau’s tone seemed to snap Jester out of her sadness spiral. She pulled back, blinking rapidly, tears streaking her face, and stared at Beau. Confusion clouded her eyes. “What do you mean, am I being serious? Yes, Beau, I am being very serious. This is a very serious situation.”

Beau laughed. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t mean to be insensitive in the face of Jester’s genuine distress, but this was absurd. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Jester? Fjord is waaaay into you. I mean, you don’t get to see him looking at you when you’re not looking at him, but trust me, sister, a guy does _not_ look at his friends the way Fjord looks at you.”

Jester wiped her face. Her lashes were thick and heavy with tears. She sniffed, pushing stray locks of hair behind her ears. “Are you just trying to make me feel better? Because if you are, it isn’t helping me at all; it will probably just make me sadder later when I found out you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.” Beau put both hands on Jester’s shoulders, shaking her. “Look at you. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. And smart, and charming, and all the things you can do on the battlefield? You’re the whole package, Jessie. Fjord would be a total idiot if he didn’t like you.”

Jester laughed. The sound was wet and shaky, but there was a hint of her usual good humor returning. “Fjord is a total idiot even if he _does_ like me.”

Beau grinned. “You got me there.”

Jester started giggling, and Beau couldn’t help it—the sound was contagious. Sitting together on Jester’s bed, they held onto each other, trying unsuccessfully to be quiet, until the distant tolling of a bell announced the arrival of the midnight hour. 

“Guess we should probably go to bed now,” Jester said. The tears were gone, her eyes bright and full of renewed life. She kissed Beau on the cheek, making a loud smacking sound. “You know, I told Fjord I love him because he was dying, and I didn’t want him to die without knowing that. So, because we’re always getting into danger all the time, I’ll tell you, too. I love you, Beau. You’re like the tough big sister I never had.”

Beau froze. She fought a wave of discomfort that morphed into a soul-deep ache that wasn’t quite happiness and wasn’t quite sorrow. A heavy warmth settled in her chest, right over her heart. Her eyes stung. She blinked back tears, forcing herself to smile, easy and calm. She put her arm around Jester’s shoulders, ruffling her untidy blue hair. “Yeah, well, I love you too. But I’m gonna have to disagree about the other thing—you’re _definitely_ the tough big sister.”

Jester laughed. “I’ve never had a little sister before.” She grinned, fangs flashing in the faint moonlight. “I promise not to push you around or be mean to you or anything.”

Beau laughed, too. Squeezing Jester’s shoulder, she stood up. “You all good now?”

Jester nodded, and hugged her around the middle without getting up from the bed. “Sleep good, Beau. I love you so much, okay?”

Beau ruffled Jester’s hair again. “Yeah, fine, okay. Don’t get too sappy on me; it’s too late for that shit.” Jester giggled, swatting at her hand. Beau dodged, diving across the room and into her own bed. As she wrapped herself in clean sheets for the first time in what felt like a century, a small seed of contentment sparked to life in her chest. She closed her eyes, smiling. “G’night, Jessie. I love you so much, too.”

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Caleb woke up early. Careful not to disturb Nott, he made his way downstairs, through the tavern, and onto the streets of Rexxentrum. He kept his hood low, hands in his pockets, cautious and alert. The morning air was fresh and crisp. His breath hovered like a lover’s parting kiss, twisting as it rose into the faded sky. He made it ten steps before a familiar voice called his name. With a jolt of adrenaline, he spun around.

Mollymauk leaned against the outer wall of the Smiling Fish Inn, a cigarette pinched between two fingers and a half-smile on his lips. “Out early, aren’t you?”

“Uhh, _ja_. So are you.”

Molly arched his back, pushing off from the wall and crossing the cobblestone street. He stopped a few feet away. There was some unreadable emotion in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, and Caleb had the distinct feeling of being analyzed. 

“I was going for a walk,” Caleb said stiffly. “I wanted to be alone.”

“And why’s that?”

“That is none of your business, I think.”

“Fair enough. I understand wanting some space.”

“No, you don’t.”

Molly smiled. “No, I don’t. But if you’re more comfortable on your own, I’ll leave you to it.” He turned and began to walk away. Caleb shifted from one foot to the other. For a moment, something sparked to life in his chest—some deep, buried emotion that wasn’t quite fear, and wasn’t quite desire. 

“Mollymauk,” he called out, barely loud enough to be heard, half-hoping he wouldn’t be.

Molly stopped. He looked back over his shoulder. The creeping light of dawn accentuated the sharp, elegant plains of his face. “Yes?”

“Are _you_ alright?”

Molly turned, his battered coat swishing around booted ankles. His hair was still too long, tangled and uneven, and yet, standing with his back to the rising sun, wreathed in ethereal light, he looked almost divine. “Well, I’m not entirely done working through what happened. I’m not going to lie about that. But once I get some distance—some drinking and sex and drugs and possibly a monster hunt or two—I’ll be perfectly fine.”

Caleb swallowed. There was something caught in his throat, a tightness that made his chest ache. He took a deep breath. His heart beat faster. He felt as if he were standing on a ledge, perfectly balanced, with a monster stalking him from behind and a river rushing below. Caught between two choices, walls closing in. He lifted shaking hands to his face, pressing his fist to his lips and running his fingers through his hair.

Molly closed the distance between them and put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. He was just a little shorter than Caleb, chin tilted up to meet Caleb’s gaze directly. “Caleb.” His voice was soft, gentle. “Talk to me.”

Caleb’s mouth went dry. He struggled to find his voice. The tightness in his chest grew, lungs crushed by the weight of guilt and fear and confusion and dread building behind his ribs. “ _Ja_ ,” he said softly. “That is exactly what I need to do.”

° ° °

Molly walked with him past the inn, down twisting cobblestone streets and narrow alleyways. Caleb was silent, and Molly was, too. It was as if Molly were waiting for a sign, for some hint that Caleb was ready to talk.

Caleb didn’t want to talk. Not quite yet. He needed to organize his thoughts, find the right words, an artist searching for the perfect brush. So he kept walking, head down, coat wrapped around him, shielding him from the morning frost.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Molly said casually after a few minutes had passed. “ _If_ you’re ready. But I’m perfectly happy just doing this. Just walking with you. If that’s what you’d prefer.”

Caleb startled. He’d begun to lose himself to his thoughts, the world around him fading as his concentration narrowed to a single, internal point. He frowned, processing Molly’s words for a moment. When he finally found his voice, he couldn’t manage anything beyond, “You are? Happy, that is.”

Molly shrugged. “Oh, yes. I mean, I like the sound of your voice, but I don’t mind your silence. You’re a wonderful companion whether you’re talking or not.”

Caleb didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He dropped back a quarter-pace. He wasn’t sure if Molly noticed. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Molly to notice.

As they walked, the sun exploded across the sky, brilliant beams bursting through the lingering clouds and erasing the stars in a blaze of bright gold. The light caught on the tips of Molly’s horns and glinted off his lavender skin. For the first time, Caleb noticed that Molly’s jewelry was missing. The silver moon and the golden sun had disappeared, leaving open, empty holes. A strange, sharp grief flashed through Caleb. It was a reminder (as if he needed another one) of what had happened. Of everything he hadn’t been smart enough, or strong enough, or fast enough to prevent. He took a shaky, shallow breath, ducking his head and forcing himself to banish those thoughts before they sunk their claws into his mind. His eyes burned. His mind was a minefield, a battleground. _Smoke in his lungs, ash on his tongue, flames flickering in his eyes as he sank to his knees and screamed until his throat was raw and his lips were flecked with his own blood…_

Someone was calling his name. Palms cupped his cheeks, the smell of lavender and blood. “Caleb. _Caleb,_ listen to my voice. You’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. Just talk to me. At least say something so I know you’re not having a stroke?”

Caleb shook himself. Not that he needed to—he was already shaking like a sparrow in a maelstrom. He took a couple deep breaths. His breath stuck, throat too dry, the air catching before it reached his lungs. “Molly…” he gasped. He ducked his head, eyes burning, and dug his fingernails into his palms until they bled. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking. There was a voice in his ears, words on his tongue, but they didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t hear himself. He couldn’t escape the smoke, ash settling in his lungs. He was choking. It was killing him, he was going to die, and he deserved it, _I deserve this, I deserve this, I…_

“Caleb!” Mollymauk, calling his name. “Caleb, stop! Stop!” 

Caleb braced. He expected a slap, a snarl, some sharp violent motion meant to bring him back to reality. But this _was_ reality, this violence inside him. The monster trapped behind his ribs, flames charring his bones—that was who he really was. _I can’t let him see, I can’t let anyone see, if they know what I am, they’ll push me away, they’ll turn on me, and they’ll be right to do it. I deserve to die. I deserve punishment, I deserve to pay for my sins…_

Molly didn’t yell or strike him. Instead, fever-warm hands cupped Caleb’s face. Something sharp and electric flashed from Molly’s fingers into Caleb’s mind. Immediately, Caleb pitched forward into the void. Darkness, empty and eternal, stretched on around him. He couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t…

_A burst of white light. He stood in a small room with a crackling fire in its gold-gilded fireplace. Tapestries of rich fabric hung from every wall. Elegant portraits sat in mahogany frames. A polished wooden desk and an over-stuffed armchair were the only furniture in the room. The armchair was empty. Behind the desk stood a tall man dressed in white and gold robes._

_Even before the man turned, Caleb knew. Familiar eyes swept over him like a tidal wave of arctic water, appraising and keen. The elegant robes twirled and danced with every step. A smile spanning the gap between kindness and cruelty flashed in the pulsating firelight. Caleb wanted to move, to turn and flee, but he was frozen. Those piercing eyes held him in place, immobile, terrified._

_“I appreciate your coming to see me, Mahvrehk’ash,” said Trent Ikithon. He tilted Caleb’s chin up with the tips of his outstretched fingers. He examined Caleb’s upturned face, cold, calculating. Despite the panic poisoning his mind, Caleb felt a flash of confusion. Trent had never been taller than him. Even as a teenager, he’d always matched Trent inch for inch. But now…_

_“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Trent said, running the pad of his thumb over Caleb’s bottom lip. Mentally, Caleb flinched back, but his body stayed motionless. Trent’s smile slipped away. “I didn’t think you’d come, after the last time. But now that you’re here, I have another favor to ask of you. Just a little thing, but I promise your compliance will open many doors.”_

_Trent leaned in closer, and Caleb opened his mouth to cry out, to speak a spell, to do anything at all, but it was useless. His lips were sealed, his lungs breathless, his mind blank with panic. Trapped, fox in a hunter’s trap, scream building behind frozen lips…_

“ _Caleb!_ For fuck’s sake, Caleb, you’re hurting yourself!”

Caleb snapped back to reality. He was covered in sweat, gasping, vision blurring as he fought his way out of the clinging dark. His hands were wrapped around his own throat, blood welling under his nails and gliding down the curve of his neck. He blinked, and Mollymauk’s face came into sharp focus. Molly was shaking him, hands gripping the lapels of Caleb’s dirty longcoat. “Caleb! _Caleb!_ Are you with me? Can you hear me?” Molly enunciated each word clearly, voice sharp with fear. 

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb gasped. “I… I can’t…” His throat closed up. He dragged his fingers down his neck, over his chest, fumbling for his hidden necklace. Before he could pull it out, Molly grabbed his wrists, hot palms on clammy, frozen skin.

“Caleb.” Molly’s voice was soft. Carefully calm. He slid his hands up Caleb’s wrists, lacing their fingers together. Molly leaned in, pressing his forehead against Caleb’s, breathing in deep, measured breaths. “Breathe. Try to match my rhythm.” When Caleb didn’t respond, Molly squeezed his hands, fingers curling to cover Caleb’s knuckles. 

Caleb closed his eyes. He ducked his head. At once, Molly dropped Caleb’s hands and cupped his jaw, fingers sliding into Caleb’s hair. Molly curled his fingers, his claws digging into Caleb’s skin just enough to sting. “Give me a number,” Molly said.

Caleb blinked his eyes open. Molly’s face was less than a foot away. He inhaled, choked on his breath, exhaled shakily. His breath misted in the fragile air between them. “ _Was—?_ ”

“Give me a number,” Molly repeated, calm and steady.

Caleb blinked rapidly. His eyes stung. He couldn’t breathe. “I…” He swallowed, winced, inhaled, exhaled. “Thirteen,” he managed at last.

Molly smiled. “Good boy,” he said. His voice sank to half a whisper, gentle as a summer breeze. “Thirteen is an unlucky number. Is that why you chose it?”

“Yes,” Caleb gasped, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Because you’re an unlucky man?” Molly’s hands slid down to Caleb’s jaw again, holding his head up, forcing him to meet Molly’s gaze.

“I…”

“Thirteen isn’t unlucky, Caleb. Not unless we say it is.”

“I never told you.” Tears stung Caleb’s eyes. They fell down his cheeks, burning his skin. “I never told you what I did.”

Molly shook his head. “You don’t have to. This isn’t about me.”

Caleb thought about the way Trent had looked at him. Somewhere between calculating appraisal and predatory admiration. _Mahvrehk’ahsh,_ he’d called Caleb. And although he didn’t know the word, he knew that Trent had never called him it before.

“Caleb. Where are you going? Stay with me.”

“I’m with you.” Caleb’s voice crackled like kindling. “Mollymauk...” He swallowed. _I saw something_ , he wanted to say. _I think we’re all in danger._ But the words stuck, lodged behind his tongue, trapped with the air in his lungs.

Molly frowned. An apprehensive look chased away the careful calm. He cupped the sides of Caleb’s neck, the pads of his thumbs wiping away droplets of welling blood. For the first time, Caleb registered the sting of the cuts he’d gouged in his own skin, marks of desperation as he struggled to extract the necklace that was keeping him alive. “I’m going to tell you some things,” Molly said. “Thirteen things.”

Caleb was shaking. He tried to stop it, to collect himself. He hated this. This vulnerability, this loss of control. He especially hated that Molly had to see it. After all, Caleb hadn’t been brutally murdered. He hadn’t been brought back, willing or unwilling, by a dark necromantic curse cast by a fanatic who wanted to use him to hurt, to torture, to kill…

Well. The last part he had experienced. And wasn’t that why he was here now, on his knees on a back-alley street, shaking apart as the silky spring sun filtered down through lingering grey clouds?

“One,” Molly said. “You’re brave.” Caleb began to protest, but Molly cut him off. “Two. Your sense of humor, when it makes a rare appearance, is absolutely delightful.” Molly smiled again. “Three. You can make light from nothing. You can summon fire with a thought.” 

“Mollymauk—”

“I’m not finished.” Molly’s thumbs glided over Caleb’s pulse points, the tips of his claws skimming the fragile skin. “Four. You know an astonishing amount of things about an astonishing amount of things. Five. You speak at least four languages—one of which you must’ve learned in the time since we last met, unless I was hallucinating that night in the snow.”

“I speak Sylvan,” Caleb said softly. “Zemnian, Common, and Celestial.”

“And Infernal?”

“Not really. I learned a little from books. Knowing a grammar is not the same as speaking a language.”

“Would you like to speak that language?”

Caleb blinked. “I would like to speak as many languages as possible.”

“I can teach you,” Molly said. Matter of fact, like it wouldn’t take hours, months, years to do so. “The variety I know is slightly different from the one Jester knows, but you’ll still be able to understand each other.”

Caleb closed his eyes. Tears gathered again, prickling behind his eyelids. He was suddenly furious. Why couldn’t he control himself? Why couldn’t he lock all of these things away where they belonged? He didn’t deserve Molly’s kindness. He didn’t deserve anyone’s kindness.

Molly’s hands burned against his skin. The contrast between that and the cold morning air was almost painful. “Six,” Molly said. “You are incredibly smart. Seven. You’re a bit of a mess.”

This startled a laugh out of Caleb. Not quite a laugh, but something close.

“What?” Molly smiled. “You didn’t think it would all be nice things, did you?”

Caleb hadn’t expected any of it to be nice things, but he didn’t say that.

“Eight. You are one of my favorite people in the world.” 

Caleb made a soft, choked sound. “I don’t—”

Molly cut him off. “Nine. You are handsome, and charming, even though you don’t think you are. Ten. You are kind to strangers, even the ones you plan to rip off. You don’t judge people based on appearance or personality, no matter how crazy they may be.” He smirked, lifting an eyebrow. “You’ve proven that plenty of times since I met you.”

“We are alike in that regard,” Caleb said, and Molly laughed. A genuine laugh, clear as silver bells.

“That’s fair.” A pause. “Eleven. You have a good heart. You are a good man.”

Caleb shook his head. His throat was too tight to answer, to dispute what could never be true.

Molly ignored Caleb’s silent protest. “Twelve. You can never hate yourself more than the rest of us love you. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. We’re your family now, and that means you’re never getting rid of us.”

Anger surged again. “It _does_ matter.” Caleb gritted his teeth, jerking away from Molly’s touch. “How can you say that like you have any right to decide?”

Molly’s hands fell into his lap. He didn’t look away. “Thirteen is only unlucky if we say it is,” he said. His eyes gleamed in the light of dawn. 

Caleb pushed himself to his feet. He stood over Molly for the briefest moment, looking down, fists clenched, ignoring the throbbing scratches on his throat and chest. And then he turned down the cobbled street, heading back toward the Smiling Fish Inn.

He didn’t look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of Part III! Also known as "Everyone is an Emotional Wreck but at Least They Have Each Other".
> 
> Y'all I was in a Mighty Nein cosplay group this weekend and we took so many photos and did tons of gay shit together, and I have never in my life met people nicer than Critical Role fans. This fandom is so fucking kind and pure. I love you all so much. <3


	16. Part III Chapter XVI: Dangerous Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time trying to edit an AO3 fic on my phone and I accidentally deleted the whole chapter!! Congratulations, me, you suck at technology.

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**DANGEROUS DECISIONS**

Jester ducked into a dark alley with a stolen package in one hand and a wad of unopened letters in the other. She ran into Caleb, knocking them both to the ground. "Oh, shit, Caleb!" She grabbed the lapels of his coat, pulling him up. The letters scattered across the dirty, rain-soaked cobblestones. The package fell to the ground with a muted thud. "Before you ask, yes, I did steal all this stuff from the inn, and yes, we are kind of sort of running for our lives right now." She tugged her hood up over her horns, tucking her hair behind her ears.

Caleb blinked, clearly too dazed and confused to answer. He took a step back into the shadows as Jester stooped and gathered the scattered mail. 

"Hold on for just one second." Jester held up a finger, turning away. She poked her head out around the alley wall, risking a glance down the street beyond. "Fjord!" she whisper-hissed. "Nott, Beau, Yasha! Come on, you guys, they're going to see you!”

Fjord launched himself into the alley, followed by Nott, who was panting and clutching at her flask. "Yasha 'n' Beau went around the other way." Fjord braced his hands on his knees, breath billowing in the chilly morning air. He rubbed at his side, wincing. "Ow, fuck. Runner’s cramp.” He straightened up. “Said they'd lead 'em off our trail for a bit. Meet back up behind the inn in half an hour."

Jester nodded. "That's the last place they'd ever think to find us." She turned to Caleb, smiling, hands clasped at her waist, head tilted to one side. "Pretty genius, right?"

" _Nein!_ " said Caleb, louder than the situation allowed. "That is a terrible idea, and there is no way in Nine Hells I am going anywhere near that inn until you tell me exactly what it is that you've done."

"Otis is fuckin' dead," Fjord said.

"He was brutally murdered by an _unknown_ assailant in the dead of night," Nott clarified, voice high and shaking. In the gloom, her eyes shone like distant beacons on a rocky shore. "There was blood everywhere. It was terrible!"

In the distance, armor clanked, voices rising in angry, urgent shouts that cut through the morning calm like hot knives through soft cheese. From what Jester could tell, there were at least five guards searching the neighborhood.

"Oh shit, you guys. We should really go." Jester grabbed Caleb's hand. Nott took Caleb's other hand, and with Fjord and his falchion bringing up the rear, they took off down the alley away from the guards’ frantic cries.

° ° °

Fifteen minutes and roughly a mile and a half later, they ran into Beau and Yasha on the outskirts of Rexxentrum's less-wealthy downtown district. "Oh my gods, we were just about to go back to the inn to find you!" Jester wrapped her arms around Beau, who gave her a slightly awkward squeeze back. Jester pulled away, taking them in. Beau looked like she'd had a fight with a trash monster. Yasha had one hand on the hilt of her greatsword, the other curled into a solid fist.

"Where's Molly?" Yasha asked, just as Beau hissed, "Did you fuckers lose Molly again?"

Jester spun around, suddenly frantic. In the commotion, she hadn't noticed he was missing. And, as guilty as it made her feel, she'd grown accustomed to his absence. "Oh no!" She covered her mouth with both hands, heart hammering, chest tight. "Oh no, you guys, do you think they got him?"

Yasha bared her teeth. She slid her sword halfway out of its sheathe. Strangely, Caleb flinched, taking a full step back.

Beau threw up her hands. "Do you think _who_ got him? The city guards, or the crazy sicko going around killing the people he used to run with?"

"Oh _NO_!" Jester squeaked, voice rising in both pitch and volume. "We have to go back and find him! We can't just leave him all alone when everyone is out looking for us!"

"Looking for _us_ ," Beau repeated. "Maybe they didn't see he was with us when we came in last night."

"Yeah, I'm sure they missed the purple tiefling wearin' the outfit equivalent of a fuckin' coronation parade," said Fjord. 

"Okay, y'know what, Fjord?" Beau began, but Yasha cut her off with a look.

"Caleb." Yasha took a step toward Caleb, who took another step back, pain and something approaching fear in his eyes. "Were you with Molly this morning?"

"I..." Caleb's voice shook. For the first time, Jester noticed the scratches on his neck and the fresh mud-stains on his knees.

Jester connected the dots, and covered her mouth with both hands, eyes widening. "Oh my god, did you guys have sex or something?"

Fjord shot her a startled look.

" _Nein_ , no, of course not!" Caleb blushed, avoiding Jester's intent gaze. Unless he was lying—unlikely, given his genuinely shocked expression—Jester had connected the wrong dots. Caleb spoke again, barely audible, shoulders tense and eyes downcast. "We were... talking."

"About what?" Nott was, as always, by Caleb's side, her hand resting gently on his bandaged forearm. When he didn't respond, she took his hand, expression deeply concerned. "Caleb?"

Caleb winced. "I was having a, uh… a _difficult_ morning."

"And?" Beau crossed her arms. "Why didn't he come back with you?"

Caleb glanced at Yasha and Beau, then back at the ground. "I... we... I was disturbed by our conversation, so I left. I didn't see where he went, or if he followed me, but it seems that he did not."

"I'm going back." Beau set her jaw, unfolding her arms. "We just got that asshole back; I'm not losing him again."

Yasha re-sheathed her longsword. Worry was etched in her face. "I told him I wouldn't let anything else happen to him. I promised."

"Not a smart thing to promise," said Fjord. Yasha and Beau glared at him, and he sighed. "No, you're right. We've gotta go back." 

Jester followed Beau as she headed back down the alley. However, just before Beau reached the end, she jumped three feet up and five feet back, letting out a blood-curdling shriek. Drawing her staff, she shattered a stack of old discarded wooden crates, sending them toppling to the ground.

Molly launched himself out from under the stack as it collapsed, dodging Beau's second strike and rolling over his shoulder. He came up in a whirlwind of vibrant colors, laughing breathlessly. Beau grabbed him by the front of his coat and slammed him against the alley wall. "Asshole!" She shoved him in the chest, then turned and marched back up the alley the way she’d come. 

"Good to see you, too, Beau!" Molly called after her. He ruffled his hair with one hand, wincing slightly. "Yasha!" He threw himself into Yasha's arms as she crossed the distance between them in three long strides. 

Jester bounded up to them and threw her arms around them both. She found the length of her arms inadequate, as Yasha alone was more than an armful. "Oh my gosh, Molly, we thought you'd _died,_ or been arrested by the Crownsguards or something else horrible. I'm so happy you're safe!"

" _Safe_ is a relative term." Molly's voice was slightly muffled by Yasha's shoulder. He extracted himself from the double embrace, looking past Jester and Yasha to the rest of the party. "A fairly pissed-off Crownsguard told me there's a band of law-breaking rascals on the loose. A blue tiefling, a roguishly handsome half-Orc, a hooded halfling girl, an intimidatingly large woman with an even larger sword, and a human with a terrible undercut and a perpetual scowl." Yasha relinquished her grip on his shoulder, and Molly straightened up, patting her cheek and flashing a brief smile before turning back to the others. "Any chance you've seen them? Apparently there's a large reward for bringing them in."

"Fuck's sake," said Fjord. "Guess we better get underground as fast as we can. If Molly found us that quick, the law can't be far behind."

Molly scoffed. "I will have you know I am an _excellent_ tracker."

"Whatever, Molly, no one cares." Beau stalked to the other end of the alley, peeking out into the street, looking one way and then the other. "Coast is clear. Couple of kids playing in the gutter down the street, but they're facing away right now."

“Alright.” Fjord took the lead, gesturing for the others to follow. “Let’s get movin’.”

° ° °

Deeper into the slums of Rexxentrum they found an abandoned shack with boarded up windows. They double-locked the half-rotten door behind them, pushing the scant furniture in front of it.

Jester quickly located a poorly disguised trap door. Nott picked the lock, holding it open as the others scrambled down the rickety ladder. Once everyone else was down, Jester knelt by the entrance, crouching with the heavy, slotted wooden door held up over her head. "Fjord! Nott! Molly! Can you see anything? Is there anything cool, or is it just a bunch of boxes and rats and stuff?"

"No rats!" Nott sounded disappointed. Jester wondered if she should be disgusted by this, and decided she wasn’t. "But there're some nice empty sacks and a couple of rusty knives, if you're interested in either of those things."

Jester swung down onto the ladder. The trapdoor slammed behind her, plunging the room into darkness. Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the low light, Jester descended. Just as she reached the bottom rung, Caleb murmured something under his breath, and a ball of glowing light burst into existence at the center of the room. It was a small room, mostly empty except for a few worn burlap sacks and a collection of ancient kitchen knives. "Well this is super disappointing,” Jester said, “but at least the guards will probably never find us down here."

Molly, who was examining one of the knives, looked up as Jester dropped into the room. "Given our history of screwing up even the most astute of plans, I wouldn't get your hopes up just yet."

"I would." Beau leaned against the wall, crossing her arms with her balled fists pushing up her already impressive biceps. "Hey, Jester. You manage to get all those letters out in one piece?"

Jester loosened her corset, struggling for a moment with the straps, and then pulled out two big fistfuls of stained, muddy paper from her undershirt. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Caleb and Fjord carefully averting their eyes—she wasn’t sure if she was flattered or insulted by this. Pushing those thoughts aside, she opened her fists and the letters fluttered to the floor like enormous spotted moths. She shoved her shirt back into her corset and redid the buckles. "Maybe not all in one piece, but yes, I did still get a lot of them." Reaching into her haversack, she extracted the package, which she'd managed to hide away after running into Caleb in the alley. "And I also got this."

"And what is that?" Caleb asked hesitantly. As if he was both curious and afraid to know the answer.

"Let's find out!" Jester ripped off the string, and then the thick brown paper, revealing a little wooden box crafted from what appeared to be rough-hewn cedar wood. She held it up to one ear and then the other, shaking it. "There is definitely something really cool in here, you guys."

Nott blinked, eyes wider than usual. "Is it little trinkets, or rings, or pretty objects of some sort?"

Beau shoved off from the wall and stalked over. "Is it gold?"

Fjord approached as well. "Maybe we should look through the letters first and see if there's anything else Otis was meant to receive before his untimely demise."

Despite her burning curiosity, Jester set the box aside. "Okay. But I still want to be the one who gets to open it, though."

"Yes!" said Nott. "But first I'll check it for traps."

"And magical enchantments or curses," Caleb added, moving closer to the huddled group. "I can cover those if necessary."

Jester and Beau tore into the pile of letters. As they rummaged through the mud-stained paper, ripping apart and discarding the uninteresting ones, Fjord sighed heavily. "Guess mail theft is a routine procedure for us now."

"Three times is tradition," Molly agreed. Jester looked up just in time to see him flip the ancient, rusted blade around his wrist, catching it deftly in one hand.

"You should really be careful with that." Jester assumed a sagely tone. "If you cut yourself, you could get all kinds of infections."

"Yeah, Molly." Beau ripped a letter in half and tossed it aside. "Then we'd have to cut off your finger to keep it from spreading."

Without breaking eye contact with Beau, Molly stuck the point of the knife into the center of his palm and pressed down until blood welled up. He smirked as the red droplets streaked down his wrist, dripping onto the ground. 

Beau made a face. "Ew, gross. You're the worst."

Jester returned to her task. A few long moments passed in silence, save for the tearing of paper, and the thuds of Nott rifling through empty sacks.

A little over two thirds of the letters were cast aside before Jester saw something that made her heart leap into her throat. "You guys! Look! Look! This one has got a lot of weird shit in it." She held up the envelope she was holding, which had just spilled a collection of strange herbs and flower petals all over the ground. Inside was a tiny, crumpled message with three cryptic sentences: _Eight has been captured. They're coming for Nine. Five is in danger._ And then, under that, a cat's pawprint, at least four times larger than Frumpkin's, in bright red ink. At least that's what Jester thought it was, until she ran her finger over it and a few darkened bits flaked off.

"Ehhhww, nasty, did someone use a bloody pawprint as a signature?" Beau scooted closer, leaning over Jester’s shoulder to get a better look.

"This is so weird." Jester wrinkled her nose. She wiped the flakes of blood off on Beau's already filthy boots. Beau raised her eyebrows, opened her mouth, then shrugged and closed it again.

"These herbs and flowers." Caleb bent and picked up the scattered leaves. He crushed them between his fingers, the pungent, sickly-sweet aroma spiking the air. "They are components of a protection charm. Well, more of a shielding spell. It is meant to keep this letter from falling into the wrong hands."

"It didn't stop us, though," Jester said, feeling immensely proud of herself, and maybe a little special.

Yasha picked up a crushed yellow flower and cradled it in her palm. "I've seen these before." Her voice was soft, reflective. "Growing by the sides of marshland paths and trails." She tucked the flower into her pouch, fingers fumbling with the tightly cinched drawstrings.

Jester held up the letter to Caleb's hovering light, turning it this way and that in the hopes that some hidden message would reveal itself. "I don't see any more markings on it," she announced after a few seconds. "Caleb, do you want to see if there are any secret magical messages or anything?”

Caleb frowned, but took the letter. He ducked his head, skimming the tiny, simple message. "Uhh, _nein_ , I don't see anything else here. I could attempt to use Detect Magic, if you think that would be a productive use of one of my spells."

"Molly," Jester called across the room. "Come look at this letter while Caleb sees if it's magical."

Molly approached slowly, his expression caught between apprehension and mistrust. "I'd really rather not," he said, with only a hint of his usual bravado. "If it was meant for Otis, then I don't want anything to do with it. I told you. Whatever happened before, I'd much rather leave it in the past where it belongs. I was willing to talk to Otis to get quick answers about things directly related to our current situation, but beyond that, I’m not interested.”

Fjord cleared his throat. He shot Jester, then Molly, an uncomfortable look. "Listen, Molly. I get that this might not be the best time or place for this shit to go down, but shit is in fact doing down. We came here to figure this out; we can't exactly go back to ignornin' somethin' that clearly has a helluva lot to do with whoever you were before. Which, I might remind you, could be puttin’ all of us in danger."

Molly made a frustrated sound, running a hand over his face. The cut on his palm, still leaking blood, left red streaks across the bridge of his nose. Like warpaint, Jester thought, and narrowed her eyes, trying to imagine Molly as he might have been: a dark stranger, deadly and cold, a hunter and a fighter with no room in his heart for mercy.

"Hold on. I think I've found something." Caleb held the letter up to the light, just as Jester had done, tilting his head to one side with a contemplative frown. "Okay, _ja_ , it is magical. There is a message here, hidden by a cloaking charm." He turned the letter over. "It is in Infernal. It says..." He narrowed his eyes, then paused, muttering an incantation under his breath. "Ah. It says, _'Arrested on my way to Rexxentrum. Execution set for the fifteenth. If I'm dead, find the Gentleman. He knows where Nonagon is. Stay alert. Open the box and take what's inside. Remember, Five: they know where we are. They are coming.'_ "

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

The others talked, and Molly paced. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms, pain flaring where he'd cut himself with the rusty knife.

"The fifteenth. So that means the execution is today. For all we know, whoever sent this could already be dead." Beau tapped the tip of her staff incessantly on the cellar floor. Each strike sent spikes of pain through Molly's head. He fought the urge to cover his ears, to fall on the ground and curl into a ball. To hide from everyone and everything until all of this was over.

"If we figure out where the execution will take place, we might be able to stop it," said Fjord. 

Jester nodded enthusiastically.

Nott, who was rummaging through a package of dried meat she'd found tucked away in one of the burlap sacks, looked from Caleb to Molly, then back again. "We don't all have to go," she said emphatically. "Caleb, if you're afraid someone will recognize you, we can hang back and play lookout. Or backup, if things get really bad."

"It's the fucking book!" Molly stopped mid-pace, throwing up his hands, suddenly furious. "Whoever's hunting us—"

"Hunting _you_ ,” said Nott.

"—hunting me, fine, they want the ritual book. I don't want anything to do with that fucking thing, and if anyone comes after us, I say we hand it over and forget the whole thing ever happened." Even as he said it, Molly knew it was wrong. A cowardly, desperate bid to escape the ghosts of his past. As the gazes of his teammates turned on him like the deadly beams of a Beholder's eyes, he backed up to the wall, cornered, trapped. His breath came faster. His heart sped. Beau had ceased tapping her staff, but the sound echoed in his head, strike after strike like the tolling of a plague bell.

"Molly..." Yasha took a step toward him; Molly held out both hands, fingers spread as if warding off an attack.

"Just..." He struggled for words. His chest was tight. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. 

_You're standing at the end of a hallway._

"Just, can we get out of here? This place. It's too..." He made a vague gesture around the small, dank, dimly lit space. "Too..." He couldn't find the words. They stuck in his throat, thick and gritty as dirt on his tongue.

Understanding flared in Yasha's two-tone eyes. "Of course. Of course, we just need to figure out a few more things. Is that alright?”

Molly forced himself to nod. “Yes. Fine.” He sunk his claws into his bare forearm, focusing on the pain and the hot slide of blood over his skin.

Two glowing balls of light joined the first. Molly looked up, surprised, and saw Caleb watching him. 

_You're standing in a moonlit field._

Caleb's face betrayed nothing. But Molly felt it—the flash of understanding, of sympathy. Caleb knew. Caleb understood. Like the inferno burning in Caleb's chest, Molly's grave lived inside him. Cold, hollow, empty.

Caleb turned away. His auburn hair caught the light, flames wreathing his face, flickering around his shoulders. "I'm going to the Academy.” His voice shook, but he pulled back his shoulders, jaw set, determined. 

Fjord and Beau looked at each other—Fjord with confusion, Beau with horror. They turned on Caleb. Beau shook her head violently, and Fjord folded his arms over his chest, frowning. "What the fuck, Caleb?" said Beau, just as Nott shrieked, "You are _NOT_ going to that horrible place!"

Fjord frowned deeply. He shot Nott a sideways look of confusion. Molly was also taken aback (and intrigued) by Beau and Nott's seemingly disproportionate outrage, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. 

"Not to be rude,” said Fjord, “but that's gotta be the stupidest thing you've ever said. We almost got arrested less than an hour ago, and now you wanna march right up to the fuckin' doorstep of the most powerful people in the city and knock?"

Jester narrowed her eyes. She bounced up to Caleb, getting right in his face, checking him over. She grabbed the front of his coat and shook him. "Who are you, and what have you done with Caleb?!"

Caleb gently pulled away. He looked down at his feet, expression pained. "I shouldn't go to the execution or the prison. Too many people." He inhaled shakily. Nott glanced up at him, worry in her eyes. Caleb’s hair fell across his forehead, sticking to the cold sweat glistening on the curve of his neck. "All of you—" he gestured to Fjord, Jester, Yasha, and Beau, "—are not as likely to be arrested on sight, despite your acts of vandalism." His gaze flickered to the pile of shredded letters and the open box. The box’s contents lay where Jester had left them: seven vials of blood, neatly bottled, and a handful of tiny bleached bones and powdered blood mixed with ashes. Inside the box was an engraving, barely visible until you pulled off the lid, that read: _'Find them.'_ There was no doubt in anyone's mind whose blood was in those vials, or who had sent them.

"Just because you can't come to the prison doesn't mean you should go to the fuckin' Academy." Beau's jutted her chin, head up, arms crossed. "Unless you wanna get arrested by a bunch of pompous rich asshole officials, in which case, go for it, I guess."

Nott shook her head furiously. "No. Caleb, no, you can't. Why would you ever want to go there again?"

Fjord and Molly exchanged a look. Fjord shrugged. Molly shrugged back, and let it go. There would be time later to ask Caleb about all this. Right now, they were running out of time.

Caleb looked up at Molly again, holding his gaze for a full three second before looking away. "The library." His voice was soft yet strong. "I have to get into the Solstryce library. If there is anywhere in the Empire where I may be able to find information on this book—" he patted the thick tome tucked under his coat, “—it would be there."

"How d'you expect to get in?" Fjord raised an eyebrow. "You just gonna walk up and request entry into what I assume is one’a the most esteemed, well-guarded libraries in all Wildemount?"

Caleb took a deep breath. His shoulders tensed, hands clenching and unclenching. Molly wasn't sure—it could've been a trick of the light—but for a moment it seemed that Caleb's fingers glowed red-hot. "Nott, Mollymauk, and I will disguise ourselves and enter the Academy together. I will pose as a foreign scholar searching for a specific type of fiendish lore. Nott can be my daughter, and Mollymauk will be our hired bodyguard.”

At this point, Molly gathered himself enough to join the conversation. "Not to put a damper on your confidence, Caleb, but subtle disguises aren't exactly my strong suit.”

The tiniest smile quirked the corner of Caleb's mouth. Molly knew he was thinking about the hospital in Zadash. “ _Ja_." There was a brief silence. Caleb cleared his throat, and the smile fell away. "But you would not be recognized or arrested based on your looks alone." Caleb glanced down at Nott. "Despite disdain for tieflings in the finer parts of this city, you should be allowed in if you are accompanying me as my bodyguard, or perhaps as my servant."

Molly opened his mouth, ready to protest, then shrugged, running the tip of his tongue over his fangs. "Mmm, that could work. A foreigner hired to protect you on a vital information-gathering mission. I could get into it."

Beau rolled her eyes. "Okay, as long as Molly keeps his mouth shut, I'd give you guys like a one in fifty chance of making it in unnoticed. Maybe a one in a hundred chance of finding anything useful, and a one in five-hundred chance of getting in, finding anything, and getting out without the literal _mages’ guild_ figuring out you're magically disguised."

"Ahhh, Beau." Molly sighed gustily. "Always the optimist. What would we do without your relentless positivity and charm?"

Before Beau could reply (and she looked like she had some things to say), Fjord held up a hand for silence. Shockingly, the party allowed him this. "Listen up. I say we take a vote. Anyone who wants to go to the Academy with Caleb, put up one finger. Anyone who wants to go to the prison with me, put up two."

Beau immediately turned to Molly and flipped up both middle fingers. Molly, as much as it pained him, decided to take the high ground and not engage her. After all, they had more important battles to fight.

With a glance at Molly, then at Beau, Yasha raised two fingers. "I'll go to the prison. I'd rather not go to the Academy if I can avoid it."

"Good idea," said Jester, holding up two fingers in a pseudo-salute. "Because those fancy Academy people in Zadash saw you and Beau after the Victory Pit, right?"

Yasha nodded, moving slightly closer to Beau.

Nott raised one finger. "For the record, I think this is a terrible plan. But Caleb, if you're going, then I'm coming with you. You don't have to do this alone."

Caleb half-smiled. "Thank you, Nott," he said softly.

"Weeeell," said Jester, drawing out the word like a string of putty, "clearly I'm going with Fjord and Beau and Yasha, because sabotaging an execution is way more exciting than reading a bunch of dusty old books."

There was another long beat of silence. Molly realized everyone was watching him, waiting for his decision, his judgement. Trying to keep his hand from shaking, he slowly raised one finger. "It's a bloody terrible plan," he said, looking at Caleb. "Possibly the worst plan I've ever heard." He inhaled, held it, exhaled, forcing himself to relax, to fall into his usual casual swagger. He smiled, exuding calm, wishing the feeling would sink into his skin and stick to his bones. "I'm into it."

"Well that settles it." Fjord looked apprehensive but resigned. "Guess we're splittin' the party."

Jester made a face. "That's never a good idea. But also, we don't exactly have enough time to do everything together, so we should just go ahead and do it before we think about it too much."

Fjord raised his eyebrows. "That sure is one way to look at it, Jester."

Beau clapped her hands together, the sound rolling like thunder in the tiny chamber. "Let's go, let's go, people!" She turned and stepped onto the ladder. "You guys coming, or what?"

Together, they climbed out of the cellar, the cryptic letter and box of blood-filled vials stashed safely in Jester's satchel. Emerging into the faint natural light, Molly smacked into Yasha. She put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, her eyes full of concern and doubt. "Are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to, you know."

Molly shook his head. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "Darling," he said, "I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to do it. It's not in my nature to ignore my instincts."

Yasha frowned. Her hold on Molly's shoulder tightened. "But what if your instincts are wrong?"

Behind them, the others were moving furniture away from the boarded-up door. The loud scrapes and curses echoed throughout the decrepit space. Molly kept his gaze on Yasha, carefully calm and confident. "We'll meet up here when it's over," he said. "If anything goes wrong, or even if it doesn't, that’s the plan. Alright?"

"Yeah, okay." Yasha looked down, throat bobbing as she swallowed hard. "Please be careful, Molly. I can't..." She faded off, voice shaking, shoulders tense. "I just can't, okay?"

Molly took her face in both hands. When she looked at him, he smiled. "You know me," he said. "I'm always careful."

Yasha opened her mouth, but before she could reply, Fjord raised his voice, cutting her off. "Y'all comin' or what?"

Molly went up on his tiptoes and kissed Yasha's forehead. "Love you," he said. "I'll see you soon."

“Okay,” Yasha whispered. She wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her shoulder and hugged her back. “See you soon.”

Yasha pulled away, and Molly gave her a reassuring smile. “Let’s go,” he said, “before the others get crabby. And by _‘the others’_ , I mean Beau.”

“Fuck you, Molly.” Beau threw a mildew-covered blanket at him. He managed to dodge, but it was a near thing. “Get your ass out here or we’ll leave without you.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Not you, Yasha. I’d come back for you.”

Molly rolled his eyes. “Ah, well, thank you for making my prediction into a prophecy.” He stayed by Yasha’s side as they made their way across the room to the disintegrating front door. Beau resolutely ignored him. 

Together, the Mighty Nein made their way out onto the run-down streets of the slums of Rexxentrum. They reached a crossroads and split up, the two groups waving and looking back at each other over their shoulders as the labyrinthine city swallowed them whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least this version of the chapter doesn't have the typos and plot inconsistencies that it did BEFORE I accidentally deleted it!! Hope you all enjoy it, and as always, I wanna say thanks to everyone who has read/left feedback! Love y'all <3


	17. Part III Chapter XVII: Undercover

****

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

****

**UNDERCOVER**

Yasha watched screaming crows swoop and dip overhead and was reminded of vultures circling carcasses left to rot in the Xhorhasian sun. She ran her fingers over the protruding hilt of her greatsword, hands shaking. She took a deep breath. The street stretched on ahead, open and bright. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go if this turned bad.

Beau was talking loudly about city planning and what she remembered from childhood trips to Rexxentrum. "My dad used to take me and my brother to see the cities of the Empire. Called 'em family vacations, but there was nothing vacation-y about being stuck in tiny inn rooms with my stupid annoying brother."

No one was listening. Seeing the shadow of doubt on Beau's face, barely covered by her loud, brash attitude, Yasha realized Beau was talking just to fill the silence—silence that stretched around them like an unseen wall, a stifling curtain of wariness and anxiety.

They made their way to the center of Rexxendrum. The market was alive with the shouts of vendors and the delighted screams of children. Dancers in colorful dresses shook tambourines and tossed flower petals, dazzling smiles reflecting the watery sunlight. "Beautiful day for a festival, isn't it?" A merchant waved the party over, grinning. "Lovely ladies should be dressed up in pretty things on days like today. Come see what I have!"

"I'm already hot enough without your overpriced rich people shit," said Beau loudly, apparently forgetting that they were trying to keep a low profile. 

Fjord grabbed Jester's hand as she wandered toward the merchant's stand, her smile eager and cheerful, ready to engage in whatever conversation this man had to offer.

"I'm not going to do anything, Fjord," Jester snapped, pulling her hand out of his. She fell back next to Beau. Her expression betrayed frustration and just a hint of sadness.

 _That was weird,_ Yasha thought, but she didn't care enough to ask. The relationships and drama between other members of the party were none of her business. The last thing she wanted was to get in the middle of something like that.

They crossed paths with a Crownsgaurd who seemed in a very good mood. He smiled as they approached, handsome face and light hair glowing in the sunlight. "Ahh, tourists!" he said. "Come to see the spring festival?"

"That's right," said Fjord, before Jester could do more than open her mouth. "On our way to see the prison. Apparently it's quite an establishment. Worth seein', accordin' to our guide."

The guard immediately turned to Beau. "Ahhh, yes. Taking them to see all the sights! Well, I suppose you wouldn't want to miss the prison. In fact—" he leaned in, glancing around with a conspiratorial grin, "—I think there's some sort of execution happening this afternoon. It's not generally a public event, but if that's something that interests you—and I'm not here to judge; different strokes for different folks—there are some guards who could be persuaded to let you watch from the sidelines." He straightened to his full height, running his fingers through his glistening hair. "But however you do it, it's definitely worth seeing. I've had the pleasure of being stationed as a guard there; the prisoners are from all over Wildemount and beyond. You'd be shocked at the stories some of them tell. Not all true, of course, but entertaining nonetheless."

"I'm sure," said Yasha. She wanted to ask what he meant by 'and beyond', just to hear him say it, but decided not to call too much attention to herself. Especially not _that_ kind of attention.

"We'll take your recommendation." Fjord gave the others a hard, meaningful look. 

"Yeah, okay! Let's go." Beau put on a peppy voice that didn’t suit her at all. "This way!" She beckoned them down the street.

Before she could get too far, the Crownsgaurd called after her. “Uh, miss? The prison is that way." He pointed back the way they'd come. "Through that alleyway—" he indicated a narrow gap between two brick storefronts, “—is the fastest way." An awkward pause. "Have you ever been to the prison? Is this your first time guiding a tour?"

Beau gave a flirty laugh, tilting her head and twirling her finger in a strand of loose-hanging hair. "Oh, my bad. You're totally right.” Her smile turned mischievous. "Let's just say we toured the breweries last night."

"Ahhh!" The guard smiled, clearly relieved that she wasn't insulted. "Bet that was fun! This'll be fun, too, but in a very different way. Or maybe ‘fun’ isn’t the right word. But it’ll be interesting."

"Thanks for the help," said Fjord. He turned and started toward the alley the guard had pointed out. "C'mon, gang. Let's get movin'."

"Yeah, if we go any slower the prisoners will die of old age waiting for us to get there," said Jester, with a somewhat inappropriate grin. "Unless they just get killed anyway, which is probably what will actually happen."

With one last look at the guard, Yasha followed the others toward the alleyway. As she did, she felt the man's gaze on her back, right between her shoulders, hot and bright as the noonday sun. She didn’t need to see the judgement and suspicion on his face to know it was there. She’d seen it dozens of times on dozens of Crownsguards before. _Foreigner. Savage. Spy._ She clenched her fists and stepped into the refreshing shade of the alleyway, leaving the Crownsguard behind.

° ° °

They reached the prison as evening fell. Ever since encountering the guard in the market, they'd continued with their 'oblivious tourists' act, which was difficult for everyone but Jester. She bounced ahead, hair swishing, skirt twirling around booted calves. She commented on the beauty of the architecture, pausing to admire the statues and little gardens nestled between elegant marble buildings. The closer they got to the heart of the city, the finer the buildings became. Similarly, the people they encountered wore increasingly elaborate clothing. A few smiled at the party as they passed, but most took one look and crossed the street, clutching their purses closer, eyes narrowed in suspicious disdain.

Yasha barely spared them a second glance. She was used to those looks. While she'd traveled with the carnival, she'd been just another oddity in a basket of strange things. Now, her circumstances had hardly changed. In fact, she was getting fewer looks than usual, as most of them were aimed at Jester, bouncing along, chirping about the beauty of the city, seemingly oblivious of the barely veiled hatred and disgust being directed at her.

When they reached the gates of the prison, the guards crossed their spears in an X across the path, glowering and tense. "What do you want?" one snapped. "The compound is closed. No one goes in or out."

Fjord frowned. "My apologies. We were told there was an execution planned for this afternoon." He gestured to Beau, Yasha, and Jester. "We're tourists visitin' your fine city. One of your fellow guards suggested we take a look around here. Again, I apologize if there's been some sort'a misunderstandin'."

The guards exchanged a loaded glance. "You're here for the execution?" the second one asked.

Beau and Jester smiled, playing coy. "Yes, that's right!” said Beau. “These tourists are loyal citizens of the Empire. They deserve to see our justice in action."

The guard on the left shrugged. "If they wanna go in and wait, we can send an escort with them. As long as they don't try anything, it's fine, right?"

The other guard gave the party a sweeping, suspicious look. "If they try anything at all," he said, "we won't hesitate to deal with it severely."

"Much appreciated." Fjord cleared his throat uncomfortably, stepping in front of Beau to hide her slightly murderous expression. "We'll make sure to mind ourselves and not get in anyone's way."

"Great!" said Beau with false enthusiasm. "You'll get the full secret tour, it looks like." She turned to the guards as they cracked the gates open and stepped aside. "Thank you so much," she gushed. "You're the best. We owe you one."

With Fjord and Beau leading and Jester and Yasha flanking them, the little party made their way through the high stone walls and into the compound. Immediately, a pair of well-armored guards approached. Fjord explained the situation at once.

"Over there." One of the prison guards gestured to a small enclave on one side of the courtyard. "Wait until I come get you. Jakel—" he indicated his partner, a lean, stone-faced half-elven woman, "—will stay with you until the prisoners are brought out."

Jakel led them to the enclave. There were two benches; Fjord and Beau took one, while Jester stayed by Jakel, asking her incessant questions about the prison's architecture and aesthetics. By the time Jester moved on to personal questions, Yasha had backed up to the stone wall, shoulders pressed against the coarse surface, arms crossed and head tilted back. _And now we wait,_ she thought. _I hope we're not too late._

° ° °

The prisoners came out in three groups of five. They were chained and heavily guarded, shepherded directly from the iron gates to the executioner's block at the center of the compound. Yasha looked up as the gates ground open, and for a moment her heart stopped. Among the prisoners was a woman, taller than most, with wild black hair braided and matted and tangled, matching the rough rawhide armor she wore on her torso and thighs. The woman looked over, and across the distance, their eyes locked.

Yasha didn't think. She didn't pause, didn't hesitate for a second. She was across the compound before anyone could stop her. She knocked aside the guards reaching for her, drawing her greatsword in one smooth, practiced motion. She slammed the hilt into the chest of one guard, elbowing the other in the face as he launched himself at her.

Yasha grabbed the prisoner by the throat. She snarled, lifting the prisoner off the ground for a moment, fingers clamped tight around her windpipe. And then, through the untamable haze of rage, Yasha’s senses returned and she let go, reaching instead for the chain attached to the prisoner's manacles. "Follow me," she snarled, face inches from the prisoner's, “or I'll kill you right here."

Distantly, she heard shouting, followed by the twang of arrows and the slide of swords in sheathes. Someone was shouting—lots of people were shouting—but she didn't care. Rage raced through her like venom, hotter and wilder than anything she'd ever felt. With a feral growl, she dragged the prisoner across the compound toward the half-open front gate.

"Stop! Yasha, what the fuck!" 

Through the ringing in Yasha’s ears, Beau's voice reached her. She hesitated, turning, dragging the chained woman around behind her. She locked eyes with Beau. In that moment, she realized: there was no way out. She would die for this. For the reckless rage that had waited for so long, buried under her skin like a festering thorn. The remorse she felt, the regret at throwing everything away, washed over her in a flood of red-hot shame.

Jakel, the guard assigned to accompany them, drew an arrow, knocking it on her bow. As if in slow motion, Yasha watched her pull it back, the tip aimed at the left center of Yasha's chest. Jakel inhaled, ready to release her weapon and breath as one. Yasha stood perfectly still, waiting for the blow to fall. No time to move, to duck, to hide. Just the arrow and the guard and Yasha, frozen in time, waiting for the fall.

At the last second, Jakel turned. The arrow arched over the compound and sank, quivering, into the chest of the closest guard. The unlucky man fell like a timber pine. Then, all at once, the guards dropped to their knees, screaming and clutching their faces. Blood ran from under their fingers. Their eyes were red, lips red, dripping violent crimson stains on hard-packed dirt. Even the prisoners fell, screaming and bleeding from burst veins on their necks, their arms, their chained wrists.

All except one. A tabaxi woman with black fur and a nicked ear stood alone, her face distantly familiar, a half-forgotten ghost from the recent past.

 _Cree,_ Yasha thought. _She's alive._ And then darkness filled her vision and she staggered, falling to her knees, the hot rush of blood like tears streaking down her cheeks.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“You don’t have to tell me.” Molly held up the tiny, silver-backed mirror Nott had taken from the inn, inspecting his handiwork. He’d managed to cover up the most obvious tattoos, turning his coat inside-out and pulling his hood up to cover his gilded horns. “Unless it’s dangerous for you not to. In which case, I promise I won’t judge.”

Caleb made a sound that was almost a laugh, edged with dark disbelief. “Be careful what you say, Mollymauk. There are some promises you cannot keep.”

Molly pushed his too-long hair out of his eyes, tucking wayward strands behind his pointed ears. Turning, he spread his arms, the embroidered interior of his coat hidden by deep shadows. “How do I look? Be honest.”

“Honestly? You look like a tiefling who’s only halfway crazy instead of full-on,” said Nott. She’d already disguised herself, her green skin replaced by an olive-toned halfling complexion. “Now give me my mirror back.” 

Molly handed back the mirror. Nott snatched it away, tucking it under her cloak immediately. 

Nott turned to Caleb, who was busy arranging his clothes to cover as much of his body as possible. Like Nott, he’d chosen a disguised form, making himself look like an elven man with messy silver hair and piercing grey eyes. His clothes were unchanged, worn and stained with blood and dirt, arms bandaged, neck wrapped in a tattered blue scarf. “You look great, Caleb.” Nott reached up and tugged on Caleb’s scarf, carefully arranging it and tucking the frayed ends under his coat. She brushed a little dirt off his bandaged arms. “There.” A pause. Then, in a soft, shaking voice, she asked, “Are you sure about this? We can still go back. There’re other ways of finding out what that book is. If the others find Cree, she can tell us. We don’t have to do this.”

Caleb looked up. Across the alley where they’d paused to disguise themselves, he met Molly’s gaze. “I am going to tell you something.” Caleb’s voice was soft but steady. His eyes were empty, blank, distant. As if his spirit had fled while his body still lived. Instinctively, Molly took a step toward him, the urge to protect and comfort rising, but Caleb shook his head and took a small step back. Molly paused, and a silent understanding flashed between them. Caleb needed space—mental and physical—to talk about this. Whatever _this_ was.

“Caleb,” Nott whispered. She took his hand. He startled but didn’t pull away. Taking a deep, shaking breath, he began.

“Mollymauk,” he said. “What I am about to tell you may make you hate me. And if it does, I will understand.”

“Caleb.” Molly fought the urge to approach, to offer the comfort that Nott gave so easily. He clenched his fists, setting his jaw. He looked at Caleb until Caleb glanced away. “Nothing in this godforsaken world could make me hate you.”

Caleb looked up again. There was fierce emotion in his eyes, unreadable but undeniable. A spark in the waxing dark. “I have done terrible things,” he said. “I am not a good person, Mollymauk.”

“Tell me,” Molly said. “Tell me. I promise there’s nothing you’ve done that’s so bad we can’t fix it.”

Caleb smiled humorlessly. “We will see about that.” He took a deep breath. Nott squeezed his hand, looking up at him with wide golden eyes full of sympathy and pain. “I was here once.” Caleb gestured to the grand building rising over the city behind them. “At the Academy.” Caleb swallowed, ducking his head, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched and posture tense. “But that is not the beginning. In the beginning, I had a family. And now I do not.” He looked up at the pale blue sky. “What I have done is beyond forgiveness.”

Molly and Nott stood in silence, Nott holding Caleb’s hand, Molly watching in horrified rapture, as the words flowed like blood from memories carved into Caleb’s past. When it was over, when the last word had fallen from Caleb’s lips, they stood in silence for a long time, not speaking, bound together by the pain of wounds beyond the healing power of time.

° ° °

"Caleb," Molly said when the silence became unbearable. "I don't even know what to say to that."

Caleb wasn't looking at either of them. Nott held tight to his hand, looking up at him, eyes wide, the pain and distress on her face almost matching that on Caleb's.

"You don't have to say anything." Caleb's voice was barely audible. "I don't expect your sympathy, or your forgiveness. I don't want those things from you."

Molly tried not to feel hurt by this. He opened his mouth, then hesitated, a jumble of words sticking in his throat. "Thank you," he said at last, "for confiding in me."

"I'm not confiding in you." Caleb wouldn't make eye contact. "I am simply telling you what you need to know if you are coming with us."

"Who else knows?" Molly asked, before he could stop himself.

Caleb flinched. "Only Nott and Beau."

Nott turned and wrapped both arms around Caleb's midsection. "I'm so sorry you have to go through this again," she said, "and that you have to go back to such a terrible place full of awful memories." Her voice trembled, wavering slightly. "But you're so brave, Caleb, and I'm with you. Always."

Caleb inhaled shakily. "I am not brave," he said. "I am just curious."

Molly scoffed, hiding his discomfort behind an expression of mock disdain. He knew it was irrational, that Caleb had had no reason to trust him with this before, but it still hurt. He wanted Caleb’s trust. He wanted to be trustworthy. "You told Beau before me?" He tried for sarcasm and landed on bitterness. "I can imagine that went very well."

"Not as bad as you might think." Caleb shrugged. "Now you know," he said, "and we are wasting time."

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Getting into the Academy was easier than Nott had anticipated. The guards took one look at the documents Molly had hastily forged, checked them for hidden weapons or other destructive devices, then asked Molly and Nott to set aside their weapons until they were ready to exit the institution. Molly did so immediately and with a charming smile; Nott held tight to her crossbow for a long, tense moment, considering what would happen if she refused, and then handed it to the guards with a suspicious look.

"They will give it back when I've finished my research," Caleb said, smiling down at her. It was unsettling to see his familiar eyes set in an unfamiliar face. 

Caleb turned back to the guards. "Um, I am sorry to bother you with these questions, but do you know the way to the library? This is my first time visiting the Academy." Nott watched Caleb's fingers twitch as he said this. She wanted to take his hand again but resisted. They had to play this right, even if it meant taking a little longer to properly feign ignorance.

The guard explained in painstaking detail the route Caleb should take to reach the library. If the guard had told them to fuck off and figure it out, Nott thought, they probably would have found it faster simply by trial and error, even if they hadn’t had a former student of the Academy with them.

Caleb didn't follow the guards' directions. Instead, he led the three companions through a secret hallway hidden behind a massive gold-threaded tapestry depicting some glorious empirical battle of times long gone, up an elegant marble stairwell, and down a narrow hallway ending in a simple oakwood door.

"Is it locked?" Nott reached for her thieves' tools. Caleb stopped her with a shake of his head.

" _Nein_ , it is open. This way is unguarded. Only students—especially those interested in book-keeping, history, and lore—know the route. There is no point in guarding a secret door."

The door opened creakily on unoiled hinges. Caleb entered first, Molly right behind him. Nott hesitated for a moment before slipping into the bright, open space beyond.

The Solstryce Academy library was massive. Shelves upon shelves of books were stacked from high, domed ceiling to elegant, polished wooden floor. The walls were made of shelves, ladders propped against them to provide access to the most remote corners of the seemingly endless room. Overhead, glowing orbs of white light hung like stars in the curve of the domed ceiling. A faint smell of dust and leather filled the air. Yellow light, bright as a summer's day, emanated from hundreds of magical torches set in golden sconces high on the walls, nestled between shelves so that their eternal glow filtered down onto the pages of books spread across clusters of tables and desks.

"This is..." Nott searched for the right word. "It's beautiful," she said, settling on a vague approximation of the wonder and humbling smallness she felt standing amid thousand upon thousands of books filled with the knowledge of a million lifetimes.

"There must be a section on devils and fiends," said Caleb. Despite his soft tone, his voice flung itself off the walls, bouncing and echoing through the vast space. "I have never researched them much before, but I am sure I can find that collection if I am given sufficient time. We can't draw too much attention to ourselves. Nott, you and I especially."

Nott nodded, moving closer to Caleb. "I'll stick close. If you need help with anything, just let me know."

Caleb turned to Molly. "Mollymauk?"

Molly seemed transfixed by the sweeping grandeur of the architecture. When Caleb addressed him, he startled. "Mm? Sorry, what?"

"I know you are very good at being distracting."

 _And being distracted,_ Nott thought.

Molly's mouth curled up at one corner. "Is that a subjective or objective observation?"

“It is an observation." Caleb looked away. "There are librarians here, scholars whose job it is to keep the books safe, and to document who reads what. There is a price on knowledge. Certain things are more restricted than others."

"Or could draw more attention to the readers," Nott chimed in. She glanced around, suddenly nervous, pulling her hood up to cover her hair. Although she knew her appearance was not that of a goblin, she felt the usual fear and nervousness at the prospect of being discovered. "I feel like you could get in trouble for coming here and going directly to the section on demons—"

"Devils," said Molly and Caleb in unison. "Don't be racist," Molly added in a mock-offended tone.

"—devils, fine, either way! If you're here to look up lore on fiends—is that racist? Wait, no, shut up, I'm trying to say something—then you could attract all the wrong kinds of attention. Especially since you're also carrying around a massive book on super dangerous demonic rituals."

"Fiendish," said Caleb. Nott stared blankly at him. "Not demonic."

"Fuck!" said Nott, quite a bit louder than intended. The nearest scholar, an old half-elven man with frizzled white hair, glared at her before going back to his book. “Fuck!” Nott whispered. “That’s not the point!”

“I know, I know.” Caleb shifted uncomfortably, moving his coat to cover the large bulge where Narayah's book was concealed. “We should move as fast as we can, find what we need and get out.”

“So my job is to distract the librarians? Make sure no one reads over your shoulder?” Molly leaned on the nearest shelf, hip jutted, smiling lazily.

“Yes. Keep them busy for as long as you can. When you see me and Nott heading back toward this door, find an excuse to follow us.”

“Got it.” Molly mock saluted. “This should be great.”

Nott eyed him suspiciously. “I really hope it’s not.”

Caleb made a face that told Nott he agreed with her, but he didn’t say anything, gesturing for her to follow as he skirted the white-haired scholar’s desk and headed for the far-right corner of the labyrinthine room. She took his hand and together they traversed alleyways of weathered scrolls, leather-bond tomes, and manuscripts preserved behind thick sheets of glass. They reached the back of the room and stopped.

“Here,” Caleb breathed. He ran his fingers over the spines of several books, counting under his breath. “They are arranged in a specific order by subject and number. It requires a good memory to keep it all straight.”

Nott squeezed his hand. “Is this why you like to count things so much?”

Caleb continued counting for a moment before answering. “ _Ja_ , that is one reason. I have always enjoyed the specificity that comes with tangible quantities. Wealth in coins, books in copies, time in seconds, hours, and years.”

Nott contemplated this for a moment. “Alright, well, don’t let me keep you from your counting, Caleb. I would hate to mess up your concentration.”

Caleb smiled at her before returning to his task. “You could help me. You are shorter; you could take the lower shelves.”

Nott released his hand, crouching down to eye-level with the second-highest row of books. “What am I looking for, exactly? Books on fiends? Books with ‘evil ritual’ in the title? Other evil ritual books?”

“I am going to conduct a ritual myself.” Caleb turned in a circle, scanning the room. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “If there is any book carrying an enchantment of any kind, my spell will detect it. This is the right section. If the information we are looking for exists, it’s in these shelves.”

Nott nodded. “Until then, I’ll just flip through some books and see if I can find anything else. Just take a little peek in some of the bigger, creepier-looking ones.”

Caleb stepped back, eyeing the shelves with hungry intensity. “I will tell you if I find anything.”

“Just give me a shout.” She paused, rethinking. “Or maybe a whisper. A little whisper-shout.”

Caleb smiled again. “I will Message you. Don’t wander too far. There are many people in this room who could see right through your disguise, should they find reason to do so.”

As Nott moved away down the shelves, she glanced back at Caleb. His eyes were closed, lips moving soundlessly, one hand braced against the bookshelf as if he meant to push it over. For a moment, pride swelled in her heart. It was quickly replaced by fear. _This place chewed him up and spit him out_ , she thought with a shiver. _Everything terrible that happened to him, this was the source._

Taking a deep breath, she turned away. Reaching for her flask, she lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. “Okay,” she whispered. The sting of alcohol flooded her mouth, burning her throat. She wiped her mouth, tucking her flask back under her cloak. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last night I watched Taliesin's Call of Cthulhu one-shot alone in my house with all the lights off, and I got the shit scared out of me by my own shadow approximately 10000 times. I have never related to Travis Willingham more in my entire life.


	18. Part III Chapter XVIII: The Mage in White

****

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

****

**THE MAGE IN WHITE**

Escaping the prison compound was the closest call Fjord could remember having since the fight with the merrow in Labenda Swamp. The familiar rush of dark, seething energy reached out and surrounded him as he knocked out a pair of guards and dodged into a narrow, garbage-strewn alley. Behind him, Beau was dragging Yasha by one hand while Yasha dragged her prisoner by a chain. Ahead, Jester ran down the alley with Cree. Jakel, the guard who had turned on her compatriots earlier, had disappeared as soon as they made it out of the compound. Fjord had tried to keep tabs on her, but she’d vanished into the growing dark, shadows enveloping her like an impenetrable fog.

“Come _on_ , you guys!” Jester spun around, running backwards, and gestured wildly for them to follow, as if they weren’t already running at breakneck speed with half the city guard on their tail.

The shouting of guards and the baying of dogs followed them for what Fjord guessed was half a mile. Occasionally they were forced to hide as troops of Crownsguards marched by, throwing open doors and windows and shouting warnings to passing civilians. _Twice in one goddamn day_ , Fjord thought. _I wish I could say that’s a record_.

Once they made it out of the central districts and into the less lawful neighborhoods, the Crownsguards’ presence decreased drastically, giving them a little more room to breathe. They slowed and then stopped at the end of a grimy cul-de-sac. The street behind them was lined with run-down wooden storefronts, long abandoned and in various states of decay, and makeshift hovels and shanties consisting of battered hides and wooden roofs held up by unsteady poles.

“There’s a safehouse in the outer limits of the city.” Cree, who’d been scouting ahead with Jester, returned panting and readjusting her armor. “Very reliable. The woman who owns it is entirely trustworthy.”

Fjord frowned. “Exactly how trustworthy are we talkin’ here?”

“Entirely.” Cree glanced around as the rest of the party clustered together in the shadow of a sagging two-story building. “She would never do anything to harm Lucien, or anyone he calls ‘friend’.”

Beau gave Cree an openly suspicious look. “How do we know you’re not working against us? You work for the Gentleman, don’t you? We haven’t gotten back to him about the missions he gave us. You gonna let him know where we are so he can hunt us down?”

Cree narrowed her eyes at Beau. “The Gentleman doesn’t care if you return for your prize. He knows what you’ve accomplished, and what you have not. He has eyes and ears everywhere in the Empire, and beyond.”

Fjord held up a hand for silence. “Listen. This is all well and good, but I feel like we’re ignorin’ the elephant in the room.” He rounded on Yasha. “You wanna explain why the fuck you just risked all our lives to kidnap some random prisoner?”

Yasha lifted her chin. Her prisoner began to speak, but Yasha gave the chain a hard yank, cutting her off. “She’s not random,” Yasha said. “She’s a member of my tribe.” There was a beat of charged silence. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. But it’s done now, and to be honest, I don’t regret it.”

Jester bounded forward, dodging around Yasha and holding out her hand to the chained woman. “Hello! My name’s Jester. What’s your name? Are you a friend of Yasha’s?” Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, and she gasped, eyes wide. “Or maybe you’re her _enemy!_ ” 

Yasha stepped between Jester and the strange woman. “Don’t speak,” she told her captive, “or I’ll cut your head off.”

The woman laughed. It was low, soft. Closer to mocking than humorous. “You won’t. You’d gain nothing.”

Yasha grabbed her by the throat and pinned her against the sagging wooden wall. The building groaned and creaked under their combined weight. The air seemed to condense, smelling of static, sharp with the threat of violence. Face inches from the prisoner’s, Yasha bared her teeth like a wild wolf. “Before you die,” she said, “you’ll have to justify your existence to me. And I will not make that easy.”

Fjord stared at Yasha and the prisoner, one hand still raised in a placating gesture, the other clenched at his side as he contemplated summoning the falchion. “Easy, Yasha, easy. Before you go around cuttin’ off heads in the middle of the fuckin’ capital of the Empire—”

“More like the _edge_ of the fucking capital of the Empire,” Jester whisper-shouted.

Fjord ignored her. “What I’m sayin’ is, we’ve gotta get off the streets without makin’ a big mess. No tracks, no trace left behind. You understand what I’m sayin’ here?”

Slowly, Yasha relinquished the death-grip on her prisoner’s throat. “Talk again, and I’ll knock you out with my sword.” Yasha tugged on the chain. With a grimace, the stranger followed Yasha back to the group.

Cree, wearing a look of confused discomfort, let out a long, sharp exhale. “The safehouse,” she said. “Are we going there?” She glanced around, ears pinning back as her whole body tensed, her eyes going wide. “Lucien!” she hissed. “Where is he? I just assumed… he’s still with you, isn’t he?”

“Well, not _with us_ , with us.” Fjord looked to Beau and Jester. “But he’s not dead, if that’s what you mean.”

“Except that he totally was,” whispered Jester. At Cree’s horrified expression, she enthusiastically elaborated. “He got murdered by this slaver guy, but then this weird spellcaster lady brought him back to life, and we rescued him from her crazy cult before they could use him as a spy or something. He lost all his memories, but then our friend, Caleb, he—”

Fjord reached out and grabbed Jester’s shoulder, speaking over her. “That’s not relevant information to our current situation. Once we get to this safehouse—assuming it’s safe—we can talk about whatever the hell tickles our fancy. For now, we’re literally runnin’ for our goddamn lives. I think storytime can wait.”

Jester ducked away. She shot him a look that was half frustration, half betrayal. “Fine. Whatever you say, Fjord.” She turned her back on him. “Cree, do you want to lead us to the safehouse? You’re the only one who knows where it is, after all.”

Cree glanced around the street. She crouched down, slinking into the shadows. “Yes, follow me. Stay close, and don’t make a sound.” Her slit-pupiled eyes flickered to Jester.

Beau, who hadn’t said a single word since the prison break—unusual, Fjord thought, but then again, this was a lot to process—moved past Yasha and the prisoner to join Jester and Cree. “Yeah, c’mon. Let’s get the fuck outta here. I feel like we’re being watched by at least a dozen creepy shadow-people right now.”

With Cree in the lead, Jester and Beau flanking, and Fjord and Yasha taking up the rear, they slipped away from the cul-de-sac and continued their journey into the run-down outskirts of Rexxentrum. 

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“So there I was,” Molly said, lounging on the head book-keeper’s desk with his chin cupped in his palm and the tip of his tail flicking relentlessly over the man’s spread book, “with an ambassador from Tal’Dorei on one arm and a two-thousand-gold-per-night escort on the other, when the ambassador’s wife walked up and _completely_ misread the situation. Well, I mean, to be fair, I wasn’t exactly being subtle with either of them. But it was just for fun, y’know, nothing serious.” He paused, taking in the irritation, now bordering on infuriation, on the librarian’s face. “My apologies if I’m boring you.”

The librarian slammed his book shut with a _snap._ Molly barely managed to retract his tail in time. “I said you could sit here _quietly_ and wait for your master to get back.”

“I know, and I’ll honor that agreement as soon as I’m done with this story.” Molly smiled, hoping it was at least somewhat charming. “Anyway, like I said, she entirely misread the situation. Thankfully, her wife interfered before she stabbed me or my paid companion to death—and she could have, that woman had hell’s fury and a wicked dagger to match—and explained the circumstances thoroughly.” Molly paused, laughing as if remembering a half-forgotten detail. “Oh, but that wasn’t the end of it. To make a very long and rather inappropriate story short, the escort made six thousand gold that night.” He winked, flashing his fangs in a mischievous grin.

“Fascinating,” said the librarian dryly. “Now shut up, or I will make you.”

“Was that a promise or a threat?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, one is a flirtation and the other intimidation, so yes, I’d make the argument that it does.”

The librarian glared at him over square spectacles. “I’m not interested in men like you.”

Molly flicked his tail, leaning in close. He reveled in the discomfort that played across the book-keeper’s stern face. “There’s no one else like me.”

The librarian shook his head. He opened his book, licking his finger and riffling through the pages. “Go away,” he said. “Stand by that shelf, or sit on the floor, or wherever else suits your fancy. Just don’t touch the books, and don’t say another fucking word.”

“Ahh, I made you curse! Thank you; that’s all I wanted.” Pushing himself upright, Molly crossed to the nearest bookshelf, leaning against it and crossing his arms. 

“Fucking devil,” the librarian muttered. “Don’t see why they let creatures like that in. A disgrace to the Academy, that’s what it is.”

Molly, unsure if he was meant to hear this or not, ran the tip of his tail up and down the spines of the books. He stared straight at the librarian’s downcast face, daring him to look up. In the back of his mind, a little voice told him this was stupid, _bad idea, don’t let him get to you. Keep up the act. Now’s not the time for pettiness._ But he kept doing it, trying to mentally bore a hole into the book-keeper’s wrinkled forehead.

The librarian ignored him. Which was probably for the best—Molly wasn’t sure if an aging, desk-bound mage could be provoked into doing serious physical harm, but given the situation, it wasn’t worth finding out. Especially given what Caleb had just told him about the Academy and its occupants—everyone here was a potential threat, and he couldn’t risk angering any of them.

At that moment, Caleb and Nott emerged from between two massive shelves. Molly didn’t recognize them at first, but then he noticed the flask clenched tightly in Nott’s shaking hand. 

“We have what we need,” said elf-Caleb. “Come, we are leaving now.”

As Molly sauntered away, the librarian shot him a last dirty look. Molly blew him a kiss. The librarian shook his head and returned to his book.

° ° °

Molly followed Caleb back through the hidden passage. They emerged into a wide, high-ceilinged hallway lined with red and gold carpeting, the walls hung with elaborate tapestries, framed paintings, and captive flames in golden sconces. Broad, polished double-doors were evenly spaced along the walls, adorned with the bronze heads of lions and dragons. 

Distantly, someone was speaking in a low, honeyed voice. 

“There’re people ahead.” Nott hesitated, lifting her flask to her mouth. “Should we go back? Caleb?”

Caleb shook his head. “ _Nein_. Keep walking. Pretend we are exactly where we mean to be.”

Molly adjusted his coat—inside out, the blue and silver lining covered the mess of colorful symbols—so that the red marks on his neck, arm, and hand were no longer visible. The Academy was full of people versed in all forms of magic; if one of them recognized the marks for what they were—whatever they were—their already dangerous mission could turn deadly.

Nott moved closer to Caleb as they strode down the hall. As they did, the torches burned suddenly lower. The hallway darkened. Caleb paused, inhaling sharply, and then continued at a faster pace.

_Blam!_ The oakwood double doors at the end of the hallway burst open. Light exploded into the room, a bright, violent white light, so pure and piercing that Molly had to shield his eyes to avoid being blinded. 

Through the door, silhouetted against the brightness, came five robed figures. 

“Keep moving.” Caleb’s voice was taut as a new bowstring. “Do not make eye contact.”

Caleb reached for Nott’s hand, and she took it. Despite their disguises, Molly’s heart raced, mouth dry, tail flicking back and forth. All it would take was one wrong move and they were done. Caught red-handed, Trent Ikithon’s missing apprentice, an amnesiac tiefling Blood Hunter, and a goblin in possession of a dangerous book of potentially devastating fiendish lore. 

The doors remained open. The robed figures strode down the hall, billowing cloaks of rich, embroidered fabrics swirling around booted feet. There were three women and two men. The red-clad woman leading the group had a stern face and greying hair. Her companions were laughing politely at something an older man in gold and white robes had said. As they did, the white-robed man turned to watch Molly, Nott, and Caleb pass. His eyes skimmed over them with cold, piercing indifference. The other mages ignored the poorly dressed trio completely, and after a few horribly long, tense seconds, they’d passed each other without incident. 

As Caleb, Nott, and Molly reached the now-open double doors at the end of the hall, Molly felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Caleb and Nott stepped into the blinding glow emanating from the passage beyond. Molly turned back toward the group of mages.

The man in the gold and white robes fell back as his companions continued down the hall. Across the distance, his eyes met Molly’s. The faintest flicker of a smile curled his thin-lipped mouth, a cold, calculating smile spanning the gap between amusement and cruelty. 

_You’re standing at the end of a hallway._

Heart racing, Molly stood frozen, caught in the man’s piercing stare. At the far end of the hall, the mage’s companions pushed open a second set of double doors. Light, as bright and violent as that pouring out behind Molly, flashed through the room.

_There’s a light ahead._

Molly wanted to break eye contact, to turn and run, to follow Caleb and Nott into the relative safety of the room beyond. But he couldn’t. There was a presence inside his head. A chill slid down his spine, non-existent snowflakes melting in his hair, trickling down his shoulders and back.

_You can’t look away._

The white-robed mage blinked. The spell broke. Heart pounding, hands shaking, Molly turned and crossed the threshold into the bright passage. Behind him, the mage’s low, controlled laughter filled the hall, poisoned honey on a silver spoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 just won a Hugo Award for Best Related Work and I am so, so proud of this community <3 Just wanna say a huge thank you and congratulations to every amazing creator, reader, commenter, artist, animator, etc. in the Critical Role fandom and beyond. I love y'all! <3


	19. Part III Chapter XIX: The Safehouse

****

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

****

**THE SAFEHOUSE**

Caleb was numb. Behind the unfeeling wall he’d thrown up around himself, his mind raced, thoughts like swords cutting open his conscience. 

Trent had seen him, had looked right into his eyes and passed him by. As he led his friends down the marble steps to the Academy and back out onto the cobbled streets of Rexxentrum, he found himself swallowing back the same panic that had, just a few hours earlier, quite literally brought him to his knees. He set his jaw and held tighter to Nott’s hand.

The guards at the gates stepped aside to let them pass. Caleb felt a tingling on his skin, starting in his fingertips and winding up his arms, spreading through his veins. It took him a moment to realize that the disguise spell was wearing off. A few more careless minutes, and everything would have fallen apart. Caleb’s panic surged again, white-hot and stifling. He closed his eyes. His head hurt. His chest hurt. Everything hurt.

But they’d done what they came to do. Hastily transcribed on cheap scrolls, tucked under his ragged longcoat, were the names and residences of every known possessor of Narayah’s book. _The Book of the Damned_ , the literature called it. A fiendish relic of ancient times, written before the Calamity, a tome of secrets and spells all but forgotten by time. Caleb hadn’t had time to copy it all; thankfully, his keen memory would keep the information safe until he could write it down.

Dusk fell on the city, swooping like a bat from its roost, black wings spread, hidden fangs and claws raking over tall stone spires. They’d been in the Academy for exactly forty-seven minutes. There’d been several hours of planning and preparation before that, and yet, somehow, Caleb felt disoriented by the falling dark. After what had happened, he wanted sunshine. He wanted bright skies and an open road. Anything to take him away from this terrible place full of terrible people, memories passing like ghosts, cold fingers tracing the patterns of his pain.

“Caleb.” Molly fell in next to him as they started down the road away from the Academy, headed toward the outskirts of the city. “Those people. Did you know them? Because I think one of them recognized you. He—”

“ _What?”_ shrieked Nott, and Caleb stopped dead, turning stiffly to face Molly.

“How do you mean? If they had recognized me—if Ikithon had recognized me—we would have known it.” Caleb’s hands shook. He had to be right. If he wasn’t, and Trent had seen straight through his disguise, then why had he let them go? It was unthinkable. Not even an option.

Molly gave him a sharp, startled look. “Ikithon was there? Which one was he?”

“The charming one.” Caleb smiled sardonically. “The one everyone was listening to.”

“The one in the gold and white robes?”

Caleb nodded.

“ _Fuck me_ , Caleb. That’s the one who turned! He looked back. He looked right at me and smiled.”

Caleb’s blood went cold. His throat closed up, panic squeezing the air from his lungs. “I…” He struggled for breath, then shook himself as Nott squeezed his hand hard, the brief pain bringing him back. “We have to go now.”

“Where?” Nott stared up at him, her face, once again green-skinned and golden-eyed, a mask of concern. “Caleb, when you were looking at all the names on the list, which was the most recent?”

Molly frowned. They began walking again, fast but not suspiciously so, their backs firmly to the Academy’s gilded turrets and towers. “Most recent what?”

“Possessor of the book.” Caleb pressed his free hand to the tome strapped to his side. “The Book of the Damned. That is what it is called.”

“Lovely. Exactly what I expected. Any chance in hell you know where this most recent possessor ended up?”

“ _Ja_. She was here, in this city.”

“ _Here_ , here?”

“On the outskirts. There are districts there that are… less fortunate than others.”

“She lived in a shanty-town?” said Nott. “But if she lived in a tent or an old abandoned building or something, how are we supposed to track her down by her address? Unless the tent tarps have little plaques pinned onto them, or there’s like, a little shanty-town notebook with everybody’s names and things. I don’t know!”

Caleb gave her the faintest hint of a smile. It was all he could manage. “Those are all fine points, Nott, but I am sure we can track this woman down by her name alone.”

“Excellent plan,” said Molly, with only a fraction of the sarcasm Caleb knew he could lay down. “Are we just going to walk up to the nearest Crownsguard and ask where we can find whatever shady bastard previously owned an ancient book of demonic rituals?”

“Fiendish!” Nott rounded on Molly, voice rising triumphantly. “Fiendish, not demonic! Don’t be racist.”

For a moment, Caleb thought Molly was going to curse her out, or whip out an equally annoying retort. But then he shrugged. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “That’s honestly fair.”

“Damakos,” Caleb said after a long moment of silence. “Rahkaiah Damakos. That was her name.”

“Hopefully that _is_ her name.” Molly paused at the end of an alleyway, peering down it almost nervously. Unusual, Caleb thought—Molly was always so confident, so self-assured, often to the point of recklessness. However, since the events at N.V.’s compound, and whatever had come before, there was a skittishness about him that he wore like a physical wound. Where he’d been cautious before, he now seemed anxious, fearful. _I understand that feeling,_ Caleb thought, and his heart ached. _The wounds that no one sees take the longest to heal._

Seemingly reassured that no one was following them, Molly fell back into step with Caleb. “I’ve found that it’s much easier to interrogate a living person than a dead one. Although that’s not always the case.”

“You do have to make room for exceptions,” said Nott. 

Molly half-smiled at her. “You do, don’t you?”

“I liked Molly’s plan.” Nott looked up at Caleb, meeting his eyes for a moment before he looked away. “Let’s just ask some random guard. I mean, we can disguise ourselves again, can’t we? Caleb? Or are you all out of spells?”

“No, I am fine, spell-wise.”

“Terrible fucking plan,” said Molly, “but as long as our luck holds for another hour or so, we should be fine.”

“I should have taken the Dodecahedron,” Nott said mournfully. “Beau has it today. I hope she remembers to use it.”

“Oh, she won’t.” Molly hesitated again, glancing over his shoulder. Caleb mirrored him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Sweeping his hair back with a flick of his slender fingers, Molly smirked. “She can barely remember her manners at the best of times. Expecting more of her is absolutely pointless.”

“But that’s because she doesn’t have any,” Nott pointed out. “Manners, that is.” 

Molly laughed loudly. 

“Please, we should be quiet.” Caleb made a silencing motion with one hand. “We are getting into the shadier parts of town. There are people here who might take advantage of drunken tourists.”

“We’re not even drunk,” said Molly, just as Nott said, “Oh, right, I was drinking! I knew there was something I needed to do that I’d forgotten.”

Caleb stifled a sigh. This was going to be a long night. He just hoped that, whatever happened, they would find some way to reconnect with the rest of the party before daybreak. Turning to Molly and Nott, who were still discussing Beau’s lack of social graces, he opened his mouth to ask if either of them had established meet-up plans with the others.

And that’s when Rexxentrum’s warning bells began to ring.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“It should be around here somewhere.” Caleb’s voice was soft, hesitant, despite the half-mile they’d put between themselves and the tolling bells. “This is where Rahkaiah Damakos lives, according to records.”

“Thought they weren’t specific?” Molly glanced back for the hundredth time since leaving the Academy. He couldn’t help it—he had the distinct sensation of being followed. A stirring in the shadows, shivers racing up and down his spine. Nothing concrete, but present. A ghost in the spreading dark.

“The records were incomplete, the books very old. It is possible that Rahkaiah Damakos is dead.”

“Let’s hope she got busy before dying,” said Nott. “Well, not _directly_ before dying. Unless that was something she was into. I’m not going to shame anyone for their kinks.”

Molly and Caleb stared at her for a long moment. 

“Anyway,” said Molly, “as long as we find the Damakos family or their descendants, we still have a chance of figuring out what’s so goddamn special about that bloody book.”

° ° °

Asking around, they discovered that Damakos was a common name in the outskirt slum-cities of Rexxentrum. However, the only Damakos with a name similar enough to ‘Rahkaiah’ to warrant investigation was a woman named Rakasha Damakos. She lived on the very edge of the city, right next to the wall separating civilization from the wildlands beyond. After an hour (more or less) of walking up and down shady alleys and past rotting shanty towns, they located Rakasha Damakos’s house.

_House_ was a kind word for it. It was built between two brick buildings that had fallen into disrepair; a trapdoor in the middle of the alley led to what Molly assumed was a larder or basement, while the house itself was nothing more than a simple wooden shack propped up between crumbling bricks. The alley was a dead end; the shack had its back to a stone wall, making it easy to defend but difficult to escape.

Molly looked at Caleb, who looked at Nott. “Should we…?”

Nott slunk ahead. She pulled out her thieves’ tools and began investigating the trapdoor and the shack’s rickety exterior. Without a sound, she returned to Caleb’s side. “No traps!”

Molly took a deep breath. He started forward, but a familiar voice stopped him.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Molly turned. Beau stood at the end of the alley with her arms crossed. Next to her was Jester, and behind them, Yasha and Fjord. Although Molly couldn’t make out the face of the tall, broad-shouldered woman standing beside Yasha, he didn’t think he recognized her. But he did recognize the sixth member of the party: the tabaxi woman with sleek black fur and blazing golden eyes who they’d met in Zadash a lifetime ago.

“Lucien!” Cree strode forward and threw her arms around his neck. She squeezed him tight, then took a step back, giving him a slow, sweeping look. “You’re okay?”

Molly looked past Cree and made eye contact with Yasha. “I’m perfectly fine,” he said. “We got everything we need. In fact, that’s why we’re here now.”

Cree exhaled a gust of white condensation. She nodded. “She’ll be so happy to see you.” 

Molly opened his mouth, then closed it, confusion overtaking relief. “Wait, what? Who will?”

Cree strode away down the alley, covering the short distance between the reunited party and the rickety shack in a few long strides. She slammed one paw on the door in a rapid, complex pattern. “ _Kreahvahk’ash! Rahkahshah!_ It’s me. I have someone special with me. I think you’d very much like to see him.”

_Kreahvahk’ash._ An endearment, spoken in the familiar dialect of Infernal that Molly had never heard another creature—tiefling, devil, man, or monster—speak. Baffled, he glanced around at his companions, silently asking for help understanding what was happening. All of them except the stranger standing by Yasha (her prisoner? captive? companion? no time to find out now) stared at him with varying levels of discomfort and disbelief. 

“Cree says it’s a safehouse,” Jester stage-whispered. “She says we can trust the woman who lives here more than anyone else. We can hide out until the guards stop looking for us.”

Molly wasn’t sure what to ask first. _How did you find Cree? Who is Rakasha Damakos? Why are the guards after you?_

He settled for, “What the _fuck_ did you idiots do?”

Before any of the idiots could answer, a sharp creak made Molly whip around, one hand instinctually going to the hilt of his scimitar. 

There, framed in the half-open doorway with candlelight spilling around her in a wreath of flickering red, stood a poorly dressed, middle-aged tiefling woman with dark hair, red eyes, and lavender skin. “Cree,” she said, and there was something so achingly familiar about her voice that Molly instinctively took a step forward, hand falling from the hilt of his scimitar. 

Behind him, Caleb muttered a Zemnian curse. Molly wanted to see the look on Caleb’s face, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. Hands shaking, tail tip twitching restlessly back and forth, he took another halting step toward the shack. Toward the stranger on the doorstep.

As he moved, the woman’s attention shifted. Her eyes met his. They were the same shade, the same deep blood-red. “Lucien,” she whispered. And then, louder, a choking sound that came from deep inside, half mourning and half violent relief. “ _Lucien!”_

Molly couldn’t move. The tiefling woman launched herself at him and threw her arms around his neck. She buried her face in his shoulder, openly sobbing, repeating his name over and over until it was sound only, the words consumed by emotion. Gently, Molly pushed her away, and she took a staggering step back. She cupped his face with shaking hands. Her thumbs stroked his cheeks, so soft, tender, full of the deepest, most primal kind of love.

“Lucien.” A breath like wind over calm water. “ _Vahndrahk’ahsh, thrahk’ahss vehnahthahshahk’ohn vahrahk’ ssehsh mehkehsh. Kahrahk’ash vehk, kahrai kehrahk’ahth. Kehthrahk’ash. Kehthrahk’ashahk’. It’s you. It’s really you. You’ve come home. You’re finally home.”_

Molly took a step back. Overhead, the clouds broke. Moonlight poured through, glinting off lavender skin, catching in red eyes. “I don’t—” he began. But then he saw the crescent moon tattoo tracing the curve of Rakasha Damakos’s cheek, tip curving along her jaw. He saw the arrows, one pointing up, the other down, etched in her slender gazelle’s horns. He saw, and he understood. Staggering forward, he held out shaking hands, and she caught his hands in hers. 

“ _Kehnahk’ash?_ ” Molly whispered. A question. Hesitant, unsure. And then, stronger, surer, guided by the painful press of memories against the crumbling barriers in his mind: “ _Kehnahk’ash._ ”

“Yes,” Rakasha whispered. Her fingers curled around his. Teardrops stained her cheeks, little drops of moonlight reflecting distant light. “ _Vahrahnak’ash._ It’s me. Lucien, it’s me. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

Rakasha took his face in her hands. She leaned in and kissed the green and blue feathers spreading up his face in elegant, curving lines of ink, tender and intimate and heartbreakingly, painfully sweet.

“Mom?” he whispered, in Common this time. 

“Lucien.” She pulled him against her, and somehow, in a way he’d never expected to know, it felt like coming home.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea where this chapter would end up and then this just kind of happened. I've always like the idea of Molly coming face-to-face with Lucien's family, whether that family be blood-related or not (or both, in this case!) And after the part Rakasha played way back in the first chapter, I knew I'd have to bring her back eventually. 
> 
> Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! This is roughly the half-way point of the story, and there are only a few more chapters left until the end of Part III. Thank you so, so, so much to everyone who has stuck with me this long! I appreciate every single read, comment, and kudos y'all have left for me. Hope everyone has an amazing weekend! Love you <3


	20. Part III Chapter XX: The Queen's Favorite

****

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

****

**THE QUEEN’S FAVORITE**

Beau had no fucking idea what was going on. On the way to the safehouse, she’d been too caught up in possibilities and what-ifs and what-the-fucks to formulate a single intelligible question. There was too much happening, and it didn’t seem like things would be calming down any time soon.

The prison. Cree. The guard who’d turned on her fellows and helped them escape, then disappeared into the night like a goddamn ghost. And the prisoner—Yasha’s prisoner—that Yasha had risked her life (and everyone else’s lives) to capture.

The final straw was realizing that the owner of Cree’s bullet-proof safehouse was Molly’s mother. Watching Rakasha hold on to Molly, whispering his not-name and stroking his hair with shaking fingers, Beau had the sudden, inexplicable urge to drag him away. _He never wanted this. Fuck, he just wanted to live his fucking life._ Anger, burning, furious, raw. She clenched her hands until her bones ached and the skin of her knuckles threatened to split. _What if she turns out to be another horrible person using us for her own agenda? What will that do to him?_

She’d just opened her mouth to say something, anything, to draw attention to herself, when she noticed the look on Caleb’s face. Everyone else was staring, wide-eyed and in varying degrees of shock (and, in Fjord’s case, confusion) as Rakasha clung to Molly, weeping softly. Caleb’s expression was different. He didn’t look surprised. On the contrary, he looked… resigned? Defeated? Sick, desperate, afraid? And, under the resignation, there was a distinct glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

Beau shifted closer to Caleb. She bumped her shoulder against his. “Hey. What’s going on with you? Why do you look like…” she made a broad, frustrated gesture, “… _that?”_

Caleb didn’t respond. He stared stonily ahead, not blinking, lips parted, face blank and eyes filled to the brim with unreadable emotions.

Beau rounded on Molly and Rakasha. “Listen up,” she began, but Cree made a shushing motion, shaking her head. 

“Inside,” Cree hissed. “The guards will be coming. They always check the slums when wanted people disappear.”

“Ironic,” said Rakasha. She released Molly, but kept a hand on his arm, leading him toward the rickety wooden door. He went willingly, pliant in her hands, unusually silent and still. “The wanted hide among the unwanted. They search every inch of these slums, and yet they never see us.” She reached the doorway and turned, red gaze scanning the mismatched, rag-tag party standing uncomfortably in her alley. She made a sweeping gesture at them all. “Please,” she said. Her accent was the same as Molly’s, lilting and expressive. “Come in. Please, come in.”

Taking a deep breath and forcing down the irrational anger burning in her blood, Beau followed Jester, Fjord, Caleb, Nott, and Cree into the shack. Yasha remained behind, forcing her prisoner up against the crumbling bricks, still holding the chain tight in both hands. “I’m staying outside.” Yasha turned and met Beau’s eye. “If the guards come, I’ll deal with them. Don’t worry.”

Beau hesitated. _That’s asking a lot,_ she wanted to say. But instead, she nodded. “Cool. Yeah, okay. I’ll tell… whoever needs to be told, I guess.”

Beau shouldered open the rickety door. Blinking as she adjusted to the dull red light filling the interior of the house, she stepped over the threshold. _Tonight’s already been crazy enough_ , she thought. _Fuck it. This might as well happen._

° ° °

The interior of the shack was as decrepit as the exterior. Bundles of lavender and mint hanging from beams barely masked the overwhelming scent of rot and decay. The shelter’s single room was lined with candles. Red candles, scarlet flames dancing and swaying, growing then dimming as the door swung shut behind Beau. Shadows crept through cracks in the boards and beams, waltzing with the fire, dark and light swaying across a hard-packed dirt floor.

Rakasha led Molly to the worn leather couch at the back of the room. She settled him down, and he let her. Even across the room, Beau noted the tremors racing through his body like little lightning strikes. She found herself desperately wishing that Yasha was here, rather than standing out in the dark with some stranger of unknown and potentially unscrupulous origins. Yasha would know how to handle this. She would keep Molly safe in a way none of the rest of them could.

Jester, who seemed to have restrained herself until this point solely because Fjord and Nott were giving her sharp looks of warning, finally reached her silence limit. Smiling cheerfully, she danced across the room to join Molly on the couch, launching herself onto it and wiggling like an over-excited puppy. "Soooo, Molly," she said, turning to Molly. "This is your mom?"

"Yes," said Rakasha when Molly didn't answer. "He's in shock. He doesn't remember me."

Cree, leaning against the wall closest to the door, flattened her ears, eyes widening. "What do you mean, he doesn't remember you? Rakasha?" She rounded on Jester, teeth flashing. "What did you call Lucien just now? Was it an alias? Please tell me he knows who I am."

Jester began to answer but, thankfully, Fjord stepped in. He fixed Cree with a steady look, taking a deep breath. "Whoever Lucien was, he's gone. This man's name is Mollymauk Tealeaf. He's got two years of new memories, and that's it."

"Yeah, and he doesn't want to remember any of this bullshit." The words were out before Beau could stop them. All eyes but Molly's turned to her. The attention only made her bolder, angrier. Crossing her arms, she glared at Cree. "Molly's been through a lot of shit because of Lucien. I don't care what you say; they're not the same person."

Rakasha smiled. She was beautiful, Beau noted, smile lines etched in aging skin, the silver moon curving down her face glinting in the red candlelight. "Lucien was my son." Beau started to protest, but Rakasha cut her off with a soft gesture. "Please. Let me explain." There was a long beat of silence. Rakasha sighed. "I'm a foreseer," she said. Her voice was soft, accent thick and rolling like a summer meadow. "I knew this would happen. _Could_ happen. There's no set future. Only glimpses and possibilities." A sweet, sad smile. "Lucien was born sick. The smallest cut, and he’d bleed to the brink of death.” She paused, breath ragged, eyes momentarily closing. “His father was the same. It was a curse, he told me. Said there was nothing he could do, that it was the price of his profession. He said he was sorry, and then he left. That was the last I saw of him.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “When Lucien’s father died, one of his friends—if _friend_ is the right word for it—turned up at my doorstep. She told me my lover was dead, and that he’d left me something behind that had once belonged to me.” Her smile turned bitter. “It was a book wrapped in cheap brown paper. I didn’t know what it was until I opened it; when I did, I hid it away for years, knowing I couldn’t destroy it, and hoping no one knew I had it.”

Rakasha inhaled, closed her eyes, exhaled, opened them. Her expression was calm, but the tense set of her shoulders gave her away. “My lover was dead. My child was dying. I knew Lucien needed medicine, and I couldn't afford that. So I let him go." She turned away, but not before Beau caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I've been practicing this speech for years," she whispered, "yet it still hurts to say it aloud."

"Hold up, I don’t get it." Beau frowned. "If Molly was that sick, why didn't he die? What do you mean, you _let him go?_ "

"Oh my gods! Did you sell him to a cult or something so that they'd heal him and protect him?" Jester spoke through her hands, purple eyes wide and bright in the reflected candlelight.

Rakasha turned to Jester. "I used my lover’s connections to make a deal for Lucien’s life. But yes. Essentially, that's exactly what I did."

"Oh, okay, wow, holy fuck," said Beau, all in one breath. "That explains a lot of shit, I guess."

"It's not what you think." Cree glared at Beau. "Don't be so quick to judge.” She looked around the room, staring down each member of the Mighty Nein in turn. "All of you."

"Cree." Rakasha’s expression was full of sadness and defeat. "It's exactly what they think. I won't deny it. But I don't think this is the time to talk about such things. Not when my son is in this state."

Beau had to agree with that. Molly hadn't moved or blinked since Rakasha had settled him on the couch; he stared straight ahead, gaze blank. Empty.

"I'll make some drinks." Rakasha indicated a small cupboard in a corner of the room that could almost be referred to as a kitchen. "Make yourselves comfortable. There're spare blankets and bedrolls in the cellar, if anyone feels like taking a little excursion downstairs." She smiled sardonically. "Apologies if the moths have gotten there first."

"I will go," said Caleb automatically. Beau looked at him. The resigned, haunted look of recognition she'd seen early still lingered in his eyes. "Nott, will you—?"

"Of course, Caleb." Nott made for the door. Caleb followed close behind, head ducked, avoiding Beau's pointed stare.

Rakasha poured drinks, cheap whiskey in stained wooden mugs. She passed the mugs around, setting one in Molly's hand. He didn't respond. She sighed, ruffled his hair, and moved along. Once everyone had a mug, Rakasha lifted her own in a salute. "To good fortune," she said. "May it find you in difficult times."

 _Fuck fortune,_ thought Beau, and drained her mug in one go. _Destiny, fate, all of it. Never helped any of us._ She thought about Yasha, how she'd risked their lives to steal a Xhorhasian prisoner from the jaws of death. She thought of Caleb and the flames that burned in his past, haunting his future. Of Nott drinking hard enough to kill a small army, of Jester whose cheer and playfulness masked the soul-deep fear of being abandoned by those she loved. Of Fjord and his violent dreams, and of Molly, twice dead and barely back on his feet, forced to face a past he’d tried so hard to leave behind.

Yeah, fuck fortune. Fortune didn't mean shit. 

Filled with self-indulgent anger, Beau held out her mug to Rakasha, who silently refilled it to the brim. Beau drained it. "Tastes like childhood rebellion," she said, slamming her mug down on the nearest flat surface. "I'm gonna go see if Caleb and Nott need any help."

Before anyone could say anything, she turned and shoved her way past the rickety door, stepping out into the growing night.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Molly was, in fact, in shock. His hands were numb. He couldn’t stop shaking. His vision tunneled, darkness pressing in at the edges, and he clenched his hands into fists, claws sinking into his palms. His head hurt so much he thought his skull would crack. Memories forced their way through breaking barriers, tendrils of silver smoke seeping out in choking, poisonous clouds.

Jester sat next to him. He heard her voice, but it was distant, too. Maybe she was talking to him, but if she was, he couldn’t find the strength to answer. Just like the night in the tavern with Beau, reality seemed to slip away, melting snowflakes dripping down his spine. He inhaled shakily, held it, exhaled. He wanted to curl up and press his hands to his eyes, to get up and run until his boots were worn through and his lungs burning. He wanted this to not be real. He wanted to believe the little voices in his head screaming that it _wasn’t,_ that this was just another hallucination, another flashback, another bad dream.

He wanted to be Mollymauk Tealeaf, and nothing else.

The voices stopped. Molly’s vision began to come back as the hallucinatory figures dancing at the corners of his vision fell away, swooped up by the flickering dark. He blinked rapidly. He was still shaking, but now it was mostly from the cold. “I…” His voice was rough, cracking like old marble. He swallowed hard and started again. “Is it just me, or is it freezing in here?”

“Oh no, Molly, are you cold?” Jester’s voice was achingly empathetic. Molly turned to her, and she immediately piled two blankets on him, draping another around his shoulders. She gently wrapped one hand around the gilded tip of his horn, pulling him close and kissing him on the cheek. “Is that any better now?”

Molly tilted his head toward her like a spoiled cat. “Mmm, much better. Thank you, darling.”

Jester smiled, bright and blinding. She kissed his cheek again, making a loud smacking sound. “I’m so glad. I also have a drink for you from your mother, if you want that.” She held out a wooden mug full of golden liquor. _Cheap whiskey_ , Molly thought, and smiled faintly. 

_“Vahrehk’ahsh._ Thank you.” He took the mug and downed it immediately. He grimaced, wiping his lips. “Not exactly the way I prefer to drink whiskey, but hey, it’s not the good stuff, so no harm done.”

“Lucien.” 

Molly looked up. Cree stood a few feet from the couch, wariness in her yellow eyes. The tip of her tail twitched, her ears pinned back. “You really don’t remember me?”

Under the blankets, Jester took Molly’s free hand. She leaned against him, pressing her shoulder to his. His throat closed up. He squeezed her hand, and she smiled encouragingly. 

“Two years ago,” Molly said, “I woke up in a shallow grave.” He met Cree’s gaze, liquid gold and royal red. “I believe I have you to thank for that.”

Cree shifted, looking guilty. “We thought you were dead. You told us to scatter if it went wrong.”

Molly sighed. “I know. I _know_. In fact, that’s about all I know.”

“So you lied. In the Gentleman’s hideout, you lied about knowing me.”

“Molly does do that,” said Jester. “He lies about so many things.”

“White lies,” Molly amended. Jester raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed deeply. “Usually.”

Cree’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember the ritual?”

“I don’t remember _anything_.”

“And the spellcaster?”

Molly’s heart paused. He inhaled sharply. Jester’s grip on his hand tightened, and she made a soft sound of distress. “I…” He shook his head. Ghosts clung to him, drifting, cold fingers wrapped around his consciousness, strangling him. “I met her after. She… came back to find me. After I died.”

“The second time,” Jester added.

“The second time,” Molly echoed.

Cree pressed a hand to her face, expression crumpling. She looked like she had the beginnings of a nasty headache coming on. “Fuck. Did she still have the book?”

Molly glanced at Jester. Jester glanced at Fjord, who was standing awkwardly by the door, guarding the entrance. Fjord shrugged. Jester turned to Molly and made a face. “Do we tell her?”

Cree shot Molly a suspicious half-glare. 

“We have the book,” Molly said.

Cree’s hackles rose. “You _have_ it? Here? With you right now? In this room?”

Molly shook his head. “One of my companions has it. He’s… not here right now.” It was only then that Molly realized only two of his six companions were in the room. Yasha, Beau, Nott, Caleb, and Rakasha— _my mother_ , Molly thought with a pang that was half fear, half excitement—had disappeared. 

Jester tucked the blanket around Molly’s neck and squeezed his fingers. “It’s okay, Molly. The others are just out doing other things while you rest for a bit. You were suuuuper out of it, so we thought we’d just leave you alone until you came back.” 

“Ah. Right. Makes sense.”

Cree crossed her arms, looking murderous. “That doesn’t make it better. Your little team here is carrying around what might be the most dangerous book ever written.”

“It’s just a book of musty old spells.” Jester wrinkled her nose. “What’s so special about that?”

Cree shot her an incredulous look before returning her attention to Molly. She took a step closer, and he noticed that her hands—paws? paw-hands?—were visibly shaking. “It’s called the Book of the Damned. The Queen of Hell began it. Written by her descendants over generations, the darkest spells penned by the cruelest and most powerful devil-bloods to walk the mortal planes.” Cree swallowed. There was a wildness in her gaze as she added, “Only those with the Queen’s blood in their veins can wield it without… _consequences._ Anyone else who tries—powerful mages, liches, sorcerers, bards—will be driven mad by its words over time.”

Molly’s hands were shaking again. He set down the empty cup, clenching his fist in the blankets spread across his lap. His head throbbed. He closed his eyes until the wave of pain and nausea passed. “The spellcaster, Narayah Veltov.” Her name was ash in his mouth. “Did she…?”

Cree nodded. “It drove her to destruction. She took the Book, and the Book took her. Her soul is bound to it now. She’ll never be free.” 

“And the ritual?”

“It was the darkest ritual in the book. The only way to get into the City.”

“What city?”

Cree’s expression darkened. She glanced at Fjord, then at Jester, before lowering her voice to a hiss. “The City of the Damned.”

“Wait. Let me clarify.” Molly pushed himself upright. Jester sat back, giving him space. “I wanted to get into the _Hells?”_

“Yeah. It was all you wanted.” Cree shuddered. For a long moment, she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “But you couldn’t risk anyone following you. So before the ritual began, you tore out the pages and burned them. We thought that’s what killed you. But now…”

“The spellcaster never did the ritual. She wiped my memories, killed me, and resurrected me for her own fucking purposes.” Molly gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt. He shook his head. Bright light, a flock of doves with wings like starlight circled, fluttering at the edges of his vision. “ _Why?”_ he forced out. “Why the fuck did I trust her?”

Cree took a step toward him. She went down on one knee and reached for his hands. “I don’t know, Lucien, I don’t _know_. But it’s done. The ritual is gone. Lost. You’re the only one who read it, who could translate it. Unless we can find Veltov, there’s no one else who knows what those missing pages said.”

“Veltov’s dead,” Molly said, and Cree’s eyes widened. She flattened her ears, hissing. Before she could respond, Molly made a sharp, frustrated sound. “Why did I want to get into the Hells in the first place?”

Cree blinked. She opened her mouth, looking confused, then tilted her head. An expression of resigned realization spread across her face. “Oh. Right. You don’t _remember_.”

“And I don’t fucking want to.” Molly ran a hand over his face, pressing his palm to his throbbing forehead. “But I’m in it now, so you might as well tell all.”

“You were our leader.” Cree’s words were infused with sadness and anger. “You were more powerful than any of us. We trusted you. When you decided to leave Torrent, the Blood Hunter collective you joined when you first broke out of the Hells, we followed you without question. You were a natural leader. We were enraptured by you. You were practically our god.”

Molly’s hand fell from his face. His heart pounded. Fear rose in his chest, disbelief turning to terror. “I… _what?_ What do you mean, _when I escaped the Hells_? What are you… did I _live_ there? On another fucking _plane?_ ”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_.” She smiled, humorless and cold. “You weren’t born there, but you were raised there, along with eight other tiefling children. You told us all about it, about how Asmodeus took you in, trained you, made you a soldier in his war.” She paused, tail tip flicking. “There were nine of you, but you were the only one who survived. Bensozia’s child, the Queen’s favorite. That’s what they called you, the other tieflings and fiend-hunters in Torrent. They hated you for it.”

Molly stood up suddenly. Watching from outside his body, he took a step toward Cree. She rose to her full height as he grabbed her by the throat, shoved her across the room, and slammed her against the far wall. He leaned in close, their faces inches apart, anger that didn’t belong to him burning in his blood. “Don’t call me that,” said Lucien. “Don’t you _ever_ call me that.”

Distantly, he was aware of Jester yelling his name. Or was it his name? Cree’s claws dug into his wrists. Blood gushed down his forearms, soaking into his sleeves, dripping onto the dirt floor. She hissed a curse and his blood turned black, inky veins standing out starkly under lavender skin. Pain radiated up his arms. His chest seized and he staggered back, gasping, raising shaking hands threaded with black veins.

Cree punched him hard in the face. He tripped over one of the blankets and sprawled on the couch. Blood gushed down his face. His arms throbbed, chest tight. He blinked rapidly, raising his hands again. To his relief, the poison in his blood had faded, flowing out through the cuts Cree had left in him.

Jester and Fjord dragged him to his feet. He didn’t see them approach; the blood pouring from his nose and lip spattered into his eyes as his back struck the couch. He clung to Fjord, who had one arm around his waist, and gripped Jester’s arm as she wrapped herself around him, hoisting him upright. They were saying things, voices loud and sharp, but he couldn’t make out their words. Shaky and unsure, he tilted his head back, blinking away the emptiness still hovering behind his eyes. He felt floaty, distant. Like he was watching his body from the outside. A wayward soul connected to a foreign body he’d desperately tried to make his own.

His stupid, bleeding, traitor of a body. He closed his eyes, and saw hands wrapped around Cree’s throat, a voice snarling words he didn’t want to say. Fangs bared, claws sinking through sleek fur into muscles and sinew. The doves rose around him, wailing and circling. Their ivory feathers suffocated him. Blood in his throat, in his lungs, pain in his chest as snowflakes began to fall from a silver sky…

° ° °

He woke up to the soft sound of wind creeping through cracks in wooden planks. Someone was holding his hand. He couldn’t open his eyes, limbs heavy, hands numb. He was cold. Despite the blankets covering every inch of him, the only warmth in his body came from the fingers resting gently over his own. 

He tried to speak. Words wouldn’t come. His throat hurt. Everything fucking hurt.

“Mollymauk?”

Mollymauk—was that his name? it was familiar, the last note of a half-forgotten song—turned over his hands and threaded his fingers through Caleb’s. 

“Mollymauk, are you awake? Should I get Jester?”

_Caleb._

_Your friend, Caleb Widogast._

“No.” Molly’s throat was raw. He still tasted blood, an echo of iron. He swallowed, wincing, and forced himself to open his eyes.

Caleb was sitting next to him on a pile of worn pillows and blankets. When Molly’s eyes opened, he looked away, an expression of doubt creeping across his face. He began to retract his hand, muttering an apology, but Molly held tight. Caleb turned, frowning, to meet his gaze.

Molly mustered a smile. Not his usual easy grin, but close enough given the less-than-optimal circumstances. He squeezed Caleb’s hand. “Hello, handsome.”

Caleb looked down at their intertwined hands. “I should fetch Jester.” His expression became unreadable. “She asked me to tell her when you awoke.”

Molly shifted onto his side. He pulled Caleb’s hand toward him; for a delirious moment, he thought about bringing it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to each burning finger. “I’m alright, Caleb.” He smiled, easier this time, wide enough to show his fangs. “Never better.”

Caleb half-smiled, a soft, gentle look Molly had spent hours trying to draw out. “You are a terrible liar, Mollymauk.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Caleb shook his head. “You are also an idiot.” He still wouldn’t meet Molly’s eyes.

Molly made a face. He lifted his head, groaning as a phantom pain shot through his chest, directly over his heart.

Caleb’s hands flew to his shoulders. “Stay down. Doctor’s orders.”

Molly, disappointed that Caleb had let go of his hand, sighed. “Didn’t know you were a doctor, Mr. Caleb.”

“Jester, not me.”

“She’s a cleric.”

“She is _our_ cleric. And the closest thing we have to a doctor.”

Molly flopped back onto the pillow. He buried his face in the blankets. “Fine. _Fine._ Tell Jester. I’m really in the mood for an enthusiastic scolding.”

Peering over the crumpled blankets, Molly watched the soft, creeping smile tug at Caleb’s lips. But then Caleb sighed, and the expression fell away. “Jester has already healed you as much as she can, yet you have been unconscious for over a day. We don’t understand why that is.”

“Like in the shack back up north?”

Caleb nodded. “ _Ja_. Exactly like that.”

“Explains why I’m so thirsty. And hungry. _Gods_ , I could go for a nice warm bath and a pitcher of fine wine right about now.”

“You will get neither. Your mother has made it explicitly clear that you are to stay in bed—and sober—until this passes.”

Molly groaned, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. “Just leave me to die.” His headache, he noticed, was gone. Thank the gods for small miracles.

When Caleb didn’t respond, Molly rolled back onto his side, tilting his head to avoid ripping open the pillow with the tip of his horn. He flicked his tail, pulling his knees up to his chest, and raised an eyebrow. “What? Still too early?” 

Caleb sighed. “It will always be too early, I think.” 

Molly was trying to think of something clever to say when Caleb reached out and brushed some wayward strands of hair out of Molly’s eyes. His touch burned. The fire in Molly’s veins— _Bensozia’s child, the Queen’s favorite_ —did little to protect him from the flames flickering, ever-present, in Caleb’s fingertips. “Rest, Mollymauk. We are here for you if you need anything.”

Molly thought about letting him go. About turning over and sinking back into the white oblivion swirling behind his eyes. But before Caleb could stand up, he reached out and caught his wrist. “Caleb.” His voice was rough, ragged as snowless mountain peaks. 

Caleb blinked rapidly, staring at a point a few inches to the left of Molly’s face. “What else do you want?”

A thousand answers formed on Molly’s tongue. He swallowed them all, and tugged on Caleb’s wrist, pulling him closer. Without leaving time to overthink, he turned Caleb’s hand over and pressed his lips to Caleb’s palm, to the point between the life line and the heart line, two parabolas like tiny rivers of vitality etched in feverish skin. “Thank you.” He released Caleb’s wrist. “For being here.”

Caleb blinked rapidly. He straightened up; Molly noticed a slight tremor in his fingers before he tucked his hands into his pockets. “I will tell Jester to get you some water, and whatever food your mother has in her larder.” He turned, pushed past the blankets cordoning off Molly’s little sickroom, and disappeared. The curtains swished into place behind him. Molly was left staring at the place where he had been, empty shadows and red candlelight dancing on threadbare rags.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all the responses I got to the last chapter were fantastic; thank you all so much for sharing your thoughts with me!!! I appreciate all that feedback more than I can ever say!! I got this next chapter up and edited as fast as I possibly could, and I hope you all enjoy this one, too. Love you! <3 <3 <3


	21. Part III Chapter XXI: The Path Ahead

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

****

**THE PATH AHEAD**

Caleb couldn’t sleep. Beside him, Nott lay curled under a pile of blankets, chest rising and falling gently. Fjord was stretched out beside them, falchion in hand. Jester and Beau were cuddled up for warmth, Jester tucked against Beau’s side. Caleb wasn’t sure if they’d started out that way or gravitated toward each other in the night. Either way, their easy closeness reminded him of what they had now. Of what _he_ had.

Beyond the mass of sleeping bodies, Rakasha sat behind ragged curtains, keeping vigil beside her son. Molly had woken up briefly to drink and eat, then drifted back into unconsciousness. Occasionally, he would cry out in Infernal, and Caleb’s chest constricted, feeling the pain as if it were his own. He’d offered to take watch while Rakasha slept, but she’d smiled sweetly and taken his hands in hers, shaking her head. “I’m his mother. I don’t have much time with him. You’ll move on soon. There’s still so much for you to do.”

Sitting alone in the dark, listening to the harsh sounds of the city, Caleb felt the weight of the Book, heavy and ancient, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He hadn’t opened it for days, yet it called to him, a voice he couldn’t silence. Under his worn coat, it lay nestled against his side. When he shifted, the corners dug into his ribs like knives.

Rakasha had spoken briefly of this book. Of its dangers. So had Cree. After Molly attacked her, Cree had broken down, furious and terrified, grieving a man who no longer existed. _That book is evil,_ she’d said, eyes blazing like bonfires on a moonless night. _It destroyed Lucien’s father. It’ll destroy him, too._

_Get out._ Rakasha’s composure had broken like waves on a rocky shore. _Don’t speak like that. Get out. Come back when your head is clear._

Cree had vanished into the night. Caleb had an image of her branded in his mind, standing on the threshold for a brief moment, yellow eyes fixed on Molly as Rakasha whispered to him in Infernal and stroked his blood-matted hair. As Caleb watched, anger flared in Cree’s eyes. Anger, and grief—so much grief. In that moment, Caleb remembered. He remembered standing over Lorenzo’s burning corpse, watching the storm gather and the lightning flare across the darkened sky. He remembered the fires in his chest, ash in his throat, embers settling like snowflakes on his tongue. The grief had been fresh then. A weakness, a crack in his carefully constructed barriers. 

He had seen that grief in Cree, that raw, violent sadness. And he understood.

“Caleb?” Rakasha emerged from behind the curtains. The last flickers of dying candlelight caught in her red eyes; they glowed like fresh blood in silver moonlight. She smiled a soft, sad smile, and beckoned with one clawed finger. “It’s time.”

Caleb stood up. He pressed a hand to the Book, bound to him by half-broken leather straps. “What do you mean? Time for what, exactly?”

“I’ll show you. I’ve been waiting for us to have some time alone.”

Apprehensive but curious, Caleb crossed the room and followed Rakasha behind the curtains and into Molly’s sickroom. He expected it to be dark inside, and it was, save for a single candle shaped like a crescent moon. Silver wax slid down its curve as the wick burned low. It smelled like lavender and honey. 

Rakasha sat on one side of the candle. She gestured for Caleb to sit on the other. “Have you been read before?”

Caleb frowned. “Uh, _nein_. I don’t think I have. I do a lot of reading myself, but I don’t… _ja_ , I don’t actually know what you mean, I will admit it.”

“The cards.” From under her worn robes, Rakasha drew a tarot deck. In one fluid motion, she spread them before her, a perfect crescent of blue and silver. With a pang, Caleb recognized the deck: it was the same as Molly’s, but older and more worn. “Did Molly ever read you?”

_More than I would like_ , Caleb thought. Out loud, he said, “He never read my fortune. I never asked.” _I didn’t want to know._

Rakasha smiled again, sweet and sad. “He has a gift for it, just like I do. The only gift I ever gave him, really.”

Caleb was silent for a long moment, carefully planning his next words. “You called him ‘Molly’. Why?”

“He’s my son, but his name belongs to him. Lucien, Nonagon, Mollymauk. What he’s called doesn’t matter. He is who he is.”

Caleb’s throat tightened. He ducked his head, tears stinging his eyes. He brushed them away as covertly as possible.

Rakasha saw right through him. “I know,” she whispered. “You blame yourself for her death. For both their deaths. And that’s your choice. Everyone has a right to choose their pain.”

Panic surged. Ash on his tongue, clogging his lungs. He started to rise, thinking only of escape as the air grew thick with smoke and the ragged walls closed in. But Rakasha reached for him through the pillar of silver fire and touched him gently on the forehead. Peace washed over him. It soaked into his bones and softened his breath as it surged out of burning lungs. 

“Let me show you,” Rakasha whispered. The candelight traced the curve of her tattoo, up her aging face and over her slender, arched horns. “Let me help.”

The tension drained out of Caleb’s shoulders, leaving him weak and shaking. His eyes drifted past Rakasha to where her son lay, silent and cold, unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. There were stains on his cheeks from his nosebleeds, which had continued long after Jester healed the bones Cree had broken. For a moment, Caleb was back in the shack in the middle of a frozen wasteland, waiting for a miracle that might not come. He shuddered. His gaze snapped back to Rakasha, who was watching him carefully, expression gentle but unreadable.

“Stay,” she said. “Please.”

“Okay.” His voice was cracked, broken. He closed his eyes. “Show me.”

Rakasha hummed under her breath as she collected the cards, spread them, flipped them, reshuffled them. The tune was soft and sorrowful. 

After a few minutes, she spread the cards between them, a crescent curving around the low-burning candle. The tip of the wax moon had melted away, dripping down onto the dirt and pooling in droplets of molten starlight. “You’ll draw,” she said. “Touch a card. If it feels right, flip it over and set it in front of you. If it feels wrong, take it out of the deck.”

Caleb swallowed. With shaking hands, he reached for the card at the center of the deck. His fingers skimmed its flat, dull surface. “How will I know if it is right or not?”

“You will know. Trust yourself, Caleb.”

Caleb drew the card. He placed it in front of himself, face down. 

“Another. Put them in any order you like. This is about you, so you should choose the spread.”

Caleb picked a second card and set it beside the first. “How many should I draw?”

“How many do you want to draw?”

Caleb drew a third card and set it beneath the others. “Three is a lucky number, _ja?_ ”

“Do you want it to be?”

Caleb stared at her for a long moment. The discomfort in his chest rose again, tightening his ribs, a bone cage around his heart. 

“Turn them over.” Rakasha swept her hands at the cards. “One at a time.”

“Will you tell me what they mean, or am I doing this reading all by myself?” It wasn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out that way. Caleb internally flinched, expecting irritation or disappointment. Instead, Rakasha smiled, slightly crooked, the tip of one fang showing. It was an expression Caleb recognized, had seen a hundred times. The ache in his chest grew.

“I’ll tell you what they _could_ mean. Someday, you’ll tell me if I was right.”

Caleb inhaled shakily. He reached for the first card he’d drawn. He flipped it over, face-up in the candelight. A young man gazed up at him, auburn hair and keen blue eyes. One hand was lifted toward the faded blue sky, the other pointing at the earth. His robes were red, his head wreathed in gold. It was like looking through a mirror into his past. A reflection of possibilities that had slipped through his fingers like sand.

“The Magician, upright. I think the meaning of that one is clear, no?”

Caleb half-smiled. He felt Rakasha’s presence all around him, like mist on a summer morning. He clenched his hands to keep them from visibly shaking. “It is strange,” he whispered, “that he looks so much like me.”

Rakasha’s eyes were unreadable. “The Magician symbolizes new beginnings. It is the first card in my deck, the connection between earth and sky. It is power and knowledge and experience gained through hard work and difficulty beyond what most can imagine. In its upright position, it is a good omen. You will find happiness in your power and knowledge. Maybe not right away, but someday.”

Doubt clouded Caleb’s mind. He shook his head, frowning. “Should I do the next one?” She nodded, and he flipped it over, fingers still shaking, palms sweaty. Under his fingertips, a beautiful woman with long light hair, dark skin, and pupiless white eyes stood between two towering oak trees, flanked by a pair of silver wolves. In one hand she held aloft a blazing torch.

“The Moon, upright.” Rakasha smiled. A knowing smile, glimmer of white teeth in silver candlelight. “A symbol of intuition, instinct, subconscious knowledge and magic, and the fragile line between wild and tame.” 

Caleb found himself watching Molly again. Molly had turned over, eyes moving under closed lids, lips slightly parted. His horn dug into the pillow, gilded tip catching on the threadbare cover. The silver light caught in the planes and angles of his face, casting shadows, sharp and unnatural. Caleb tore his eyes away, looking down at the last card in the spread.

“The last card often represents the path ahead.” In the darkness and quiet of midnight, Rakasha’s voice seemed louder, sharper. Casting shadows, echoing off invisible walls. “At least that’s how I interpret it. But in the end, it’s really up to you.”

_My future._ Caleb didn’t have a future. He spent every moment working toward the past, time slipping away, grasping at slipstreams like silk ribbons in a dancer’s nimble hands. _I wil not have a future_ , he thought, _until I have changed the past._

“Turn it.” Rakasha wore a gentle, unreadable expression. “Face the future.”

Caleb turned the last card. He set it above the others. Unlike the previous two, this one faced away, toward Rakasha and the half-melted candle. Caleb leaned down to get a better look at the image. It was a cold, stone-faced woman with a crown of thorns, holding a set of golden scales in her outstretched hands. One side dipped low, the other rising. Her deep brown eyes stared into his. Blood dripped down one side of her face where the thorns had sunk into her skin. It was as if she were alive, watching him through polished glass.

“Justice.” Rakasha’s voice sunk to a whisper. The candle flickered, burning low, the flame guttering as wax poured onto the floor. “Reversed.”

Caleb knew enough about tarot cards to know this wasn’t good. He clenched his fists. Again, panic rose in his throat, burning behind his ribs. 

_Justice_. 

He didn’t need a foreseer to tell him what this card meant. 

_I killed them._

Embers burned on his tongue, hot and heavy as the guilt inside him, clawing at his heart, ripping it to pieces.

_I killed them all._

He closed his eyes and fell.

° ° °

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until he felt Rakasha’s gentle hands on his face. “You’ve done terrible things.” Her thumbs traced his cheekbones. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, to see her judgement. Eyes that were so much like Molly’s, keen and full of life, wildness barely contained. “Doing bad things doesn’t make you a bad person.” Her hands fell away. A lingering scent of lavender and honey surrounded him like a gentle mist.

Caleb opened his eyes. Rakasha was back where she’d started, legs crossed, hands resting on her knees. She met his gaze steadily until he looked away, back at the spread of cards between them. His heart beat frantically. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry, the lingering taste of smoke and ashes on his tongue.

“A reversed card doesn’t always have negative connotations, Caleb. Sometimes it means that the predicated events will unfold in unexpected ways.” Her smile grew again. The candle guttered. Only the bottom third of the moon remained, the pool of wax spreading, tendrils of molten silver reaching out slender fingers, caressing bare dirt. “You will get your justice, one way or another. There are some deeds the fates can’t leave unpunished.”

Caleb flinched. He collected the cards and handed them to Rakasha. As he did, his hand slipped, and The Moon slid through his fingers and fell into the fire. Caleb leaned back as the flames flared, his heart racing, fingers suddenly numb. Rakasha’s nimble hand shot out and retrieved the card, pressing it between her palms to extinguish the fire spreading from the center out. 

“It’s alright, Caleb.” Her expression remained tranquil even as some unnamable emotion flared in her eyes. “If you’re done asking questions, you should try to sleep. Morning isn’t far off, and like I said, you won’t be staying long. Rest while you can.”

Caleb pushed himself to his feet. His knees ached, and he was still shaking. As he turned to go, pushing his way past dangling, threadbare blankets, Rakasha’s soft voice gave him momentary pause.

“Remember, Caleb Widogast: the sharpest swords are forged in the hottest flames.” Her face melted into the shadows as the last of the silver candle melted away, pooling at her feet like liquid moonlight. The final flicker caught in her eyes. They stayed alight after the flame guttered and died; for a moment, Caleb saw galaxies in their depths, stars spinning in an endless abyss. Then she blinked, and the room went dark. 

“Goodnight,” she whispered. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

“ _Gute Naucht_.” Caleb hated how his voice shook. Turning away, he pushed aside the curtains. He stood for a moment in the open space, sweat running down his back, eyes stinging and hands numb. Under his coat, the Book hung heavy against his side. For one horrible moment, he reached for it against his will, but then he shook himself, and the urge passed like a bad dream. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he crossed the room and settled himself beside Nott.

He didn’t bother lying down. He wouldn’t find rest again that night.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot possibly thank IronicallyEmo enough for the absolutely stunning art they drew of the last scene from Chapter 20. I'm so incredibly in love with it. If y'all want to go check it out (and you really should, it's beautiful) it's posted on IronicallyEmo's art blog here: https://poisonedwatermelon.tumblr.com/image/187336216613
> 
> I'm really happy that a lot of you seemed to like the previous chapter, and I can't wait to see what you think of this one!! There really is nothing like having your fortune read by your future boyfriend's clairvoyant mom, resulting in a semi-panic attack about having killed your own parents. Poor Caleb.
> 
> Anyway, love you all! Hope you're having a great weekend! <3


	22. Part III Chapter XXII: Blood of the Queen

****

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

****

**BLOOD OF THE QUEEN**

A gentle song wove itself through Molly’s dreams. Like summer wine, it was sweet and strong, the whisper of a memory half forgotten. Occasionally he’d open his eyes and, in the darkness, Rakasha was there, a hesitant hand resting on his face, her thumb softly tracing the ridge of his cheekbone. Her lips moved around soft words, her gentle smile coloring each note, a lullaby that tugged at something far-off and hidden in the deepest corners of his mind. Nostalgia, brighter and sharper than any he’d felt before, filled his chest. A dull ache that rose and fell with Rakasha’s gentle, velvet voice, silver light glancing off water like polished glass.

The song faded. Molly fell through darkness into bright, piercing white, eyes wide as the emptiness swallow him whole. 

° ° °

He woke up shaking, claws digging into his forearms, the tip of one horn caught on the ragged fabric of his pillow. He pushed himself upright, glancing around, and found himself alone. His head spun, the world shifting around him. He ducked his head and breathed. His blurry vision cleared. He swallowed the nausea and shook off the vertigo, forcing himself to stand.

“You’ll leave tonight. There’s no time.” Beyond the makeshift sickroom, Rakasha was speaking. Despite her gentle tone, her words were hard, clear. Leaving no room for argument. 

Another voice. Familiar, low, abrasive. “Is he any better?”

Rakasha sighed. “Well, I don’t—” 

“So that’s a ‘no’. Great. Y’know what, let me get something straight real fast: you expect us to what, fuck off to gods don’t even know where while he’s like _this?_ Are you fuckin’ crazy? He’s your kid! Don’t you give a fuck about what happens to him?”

_Beau._ Molly half-smiled. She might be an annoying asshole, but she cared when and where it mattered. In her own annoying asshole way, of course, but he couldn’t really blame her. It wasn’t like any of them had degrees in social awareness.

Rakasha spoke again. She sounded resigned, quiet. Sad. “Of course I give a fuck about what happens to him. I wouldn’t be sending him away if I had a choice.”

“Oh, fuck off with the whole ‘I don’t have a choice’ destiny and fate bullcrap.” Beau sounded pissed. Not her usual level of irritated-and-irritating, either, but legitimately upset. “Maybe you can see the future. Fine. Let’s go with that. But even you said that nothing’s set in stone. How do you know that what you’re seeing has to happen? We can stay here until he’s stronger, until we figure out why this shit keeps happening. And then we’ll get outta here; trust me, I don’t think any of us are super fond of the idea of nine people living under one tiny-ass roof.” Beau paused, exhaling loudly. “You don’t have a monopoly on caring about him. We’re his family, too. Maybe more than you are.” 

There was a long, harsh silence. Molly reached for the curtains separating his room from the rest of the house. Then he hesitated, waiting to see what Rakasha would say to that.

“I know you are.” Rakasha sounded on the brink of tears. “I know. And I’m so grateful, I really am. Thank you, Beauregard. For what you’ve done, and… and for everything you have yet to do.”

“Don’t be grateful.” Beau’s tone was sharp and vicious with anger. “Be a better parent.”

Rakasha didn’t reply. Molly waited a few more seconds before pushing aside the curtains and emerging, stretching and yawning theatrically, into the midday light. The front door was open, natural light flooding the little room, while red candles with golden flames danced merrily on every flat surface.

Beau and Rakasha stood at the far end of the room, silhouettes drenched in spring sunshine, as far apart as the small space permitted. Molly blinked, vision blurring as his head spun and his knees weakened. He shook it off and summoned an easy smile. “Good morning! Not to be forward, but is there anything to eat? Pretty sure I just slept for two days straight.”

Beau gave Molly a long, sweeping look. Uncrossing her arms, she flexed her hands like a wildcat would its claws, then turned and stalked out the front door into the alleyway beyond. 

Molly shifted, suddenly uncomfortable at being left alone with Rakasha. “So.” He tried to think of something clever to say. Something witty or charming to soothe the panicked creature stirring under his skin. “How long have you lived here? Not to be rude, it’s just a bit…” He made a broad gesture, wishing he could shove the words back down his throat. “…small.”

Rakasha chuckled. She shook her head, black curls bobbing and gleaming in the watery light. “Temporary, you mean.” She sighed. Her smile fell away, and she suddenly seemed older, frailer. “It was meant to be. But moving around too much became… well.”

Molly rubbed at the scratches on his forearms. They’d begun to scab over, along with the self-inflicted wound on his palm. “Not to pry—if it’s not my place to ask, don’t bother answering—but why not find someplace better than this—again, no offence meant—and settle down?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know.” The sadness in her voice was sharp and brittle. In response to his look of confusion, she made a sweeping gesture up and down his body. “Look at you. Look at _us._ Most people fear us, some hate us, and our own kind? They want us dead.” 

Molly blinked. “What… our own kind? Do you mean tieflings, or—?”

“ _Blood of the Queen._ ” Rakasha’s voice was low, dangerous. The words weren’t her own; Molly didn’t know how he knew, but he did. “ _Marked by Bensozia, blood of her blood, forged in the fires of Hell.”_

Something sparked to life in Molly’s chest. A piece of him that wasn’t him, a greedy white-eyed monster tearing at the barriers between Molly and Lucien. For a moment Molly held perfectly still, blinking rapidly. White feathers fluttered at the edges of his vision. Doves circled, snowflakes spinning to earth, stained crimson as the thirsty earth drank a river of rich red.

“No.” Molly clenched his fists. He closed his eyes and shook his head until he fell back, bracing himself against the wall. Panic exploded in his chest, baseless fear of some nameless thing. _Fuck, this is so stupid. I never wanted any of this. I just wanted to be me._

“You _are_ you.” He blinked and Rakasha was there, crouched in front of him, the tips of her fingers an inch from his face. “People can hate us, fear us, blame us for the fears and hatred of others.” Rakasha drew a shallow, shaky breath. Just shy of touching him, she fell back onto her knees, kneeling a couple feet away on the dirt floor. “Because we’re marked,” she said, raising her own lavender-skinned hands, keen red eyes gleaming in the candlelight, “by the Blood of Bensozia, of Asmodeus, we’re blamed for the stigmas surrounding our race. The fires of Hell burn in the veins of Hell’s children, after all. More devil than human, treacherous and vicious and violent and bad.” She took another deep breath. Tears clung to her lashes, refusing to fall. When she spoke again, her voice shook like the last leaf on an autumn tree. “When you were a child, I was so afraid for you. They would’ve killed you, if they’d had the chance.”

Molly’s heart beat fast, hammering against his ribs. His mouth was dry. His hands were shaking, and fuck, _fuck_ , he really wanted that to stop. For one wild moment he thought about slicing through the tendons and veins until he struck bone, about cutting away the weakness and the fear and the doubt. He gritted his teeth, and the urge passed. 

“ _They_ ,” he said, voice low and raspy. “Who’s _they?_ ”

Another soft, sad smile. “Everyone. The guards, the commoners, the nobles, the royals, the mages, the beggars, the criminals, and all the rest. But especially people like us. Divine-bloods who’d look at the shade of your skin and decide that, because of how you were born, you don’t deserve to live.”

Molly pushed himself upright. His hands shook, but his legs stood strong. Mustering a calm, controlled voice, he said, “Well, what can I say? People are assholes.”

Rakasha rose as well. She was just a little shorter than him, though not by much, and with her upward-curving horns, she technically had a two-inch advantage. Her presence, regardless of height or stature, was bigger than that. The force surrounding her imbued her with an endless sort of calm. “No one is born a monster,” she said, “but words are weapons, and some people wield them like they’re at war.”

“An angel’s an angel ‘til you call him the devil.” Molly smiled sardonically. He breathed out and his head spun, knees weak. He took a shaky breath, palm flat against the wall, claws leaving gouges in the half-rotten wood. He tried not to think about anything until the dizziness passed.

“Your friend went to get food. She should be back soon.” Rakasha touched his shoulder. The faintest touch, a brush of fingers on fabric. “The others are out getting supplies and figuring out escape routes. It’ll be trouble, getting you all out of the city. But we can do it. It’ll just take some careful planning.”

Molly frowned. “Wait, hold on. Are we leaving? Is that a thing?”

“You have to go. There’re things you need to do. All of you. And if you stay here, it’ll end badly.”

“Am I supposed to believe you got all that from a beat-up deck of cards?”

“I saw it. I felt it. It’s inside me.” Rakasha said it matter-of-factly, and with a little shrug. “The cards are conduits. You know that.”

She turned away. “Beauregard’s taking too long. I’m going to go see if she needs help.” Before Molly could protest, she swept away across the room toward the open door. He watched her go, leaning hard on the wall, until the tip of her lavender tail swished out of sight.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

They left in the dead of night. Clouds crowded the sky, the only light coming from stray fireflies and the faded glow of a single red-burning candle cradled in Rakasha’s hands. Caleb hung back, one hand on the door, his spine tingling as discomfort crawled across his skin and lodged in the corners of his consciousness. “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“Absolutely not.” Molly flashed a bright smile. “And before anyone makes a scathing comeback, I agree that we should think this out before charging off into the arms of the Crownsguard.” He turned to Rakasha, who had remained solemn and silent ever since her son’s recovery. If it could be called a recovery—shadows clung to Molly’s eyes, skin pale and hands shaking despite his efforts to hide it. Nothing escaped Caleb’s keen eyes. Darkness or no darkness, he knew Molly, at least as well as Molly knew Molly. Which, he was beginning to realize, was not very well. 

“Rakasha. Mother? Rakasha.” Molly cleared his throat. “You’re not coming, but you can’t stay here. If anyone’s coming after me, they’ll come after you first.”

Rakasha sighed. The flame bent and danced. “I know people in the underworld. They’ll protect me.” A heavy pause. “Torrent, the cult Lucien and Cree used to run with—sorry, that _Molly_ and Cree used to run with—they’ll hunt you until you’re all dead. Either that, or they’ll capture you and drag you back to face their particular brand of justice.” She shuddered. “You have to stay one step ahead. Two steps, when possible. Please—” her voice sank to a whisper, “—don’t do anything stupid. Any of you.” Her sharp red gaze flickered across the group. It landed on Caleb, lingering for a moment. His heartbeat spiked and his mouth went dry. Rakasha blinked and looked away, but her presence lingered in his mind, soft and gentle, unknowable and strange. 

“This lot bein’ stupid?” Fjord raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his armored chest. “You’ve gotta be joking.”

Jester grinned, and Beau elbowed Fjord in the side. “Shut up,” said Beau.

“No, he’s totally right,” said Jester. “We do stupid things all the time.”

Beau smirked. “I honestly can’t tell who’s joking at this point.”

Jester giggled, and Beau put an arm around her shoulders, grinning and shaking her head.

“We should go.” Cree shifted nervously, slit-pupiled eyes reflecting the faint moonlight as she scanned the alleyway. The tip of her tail flicked. Molly’s tail did that, sometimes. And Jester’s, although hers was more like flailing. Despite Molly’s bold, open personality, he was remarkably reserved when it came to showing fear and pain. It was almost as if he didn’t feel it—or had been trained not to.

Rakasha set the candle on the ground, casting long shadows on crumbling brick walls. She crouched beside it, cupping her hands around the flame. Closing her eyes, she murmured a prayer. Caleb caught the words, but not their meaning. Infernal, despite his best attempts to learn it, evaded him. 

“It’s time.” Rakasha stood. She faced them with her chin up and her shoulders back, the tips of her horns lit by a trace of distant moonlight. “Cree, keep them safe. And before you go, there’s one last thing I’d advise: don’t stay together. Split up.”

Jester made a face. “Never split the party. That’s like, probably the number one rule of adventuring. After making lots of gold, of course.”

Rakasha shook her head. “Usually I’d agree, but Torrent are hunters. The magic they use, it’s old. And cursed. If they want you, they’ll find you. It’s just a matter of when.”

“So what’s the point?” Beau crossed her arms, frowning. “If they’re just gonna catch us anyway, why run? Why not stay here in the city, where there are guards and witnesses and shit?”

“Guards don’t matter. They can’t keep you safe.” Rakasha’s gaze flickered from Molly to Cree, then back again. “I sent someone to find you. Cree, I’m sure you remember her.”

Cree raised an eyebrow. “Tyffial? That’s who was sneaking around in the alleys after the prison break?”

Rakasha half-smiled. “Who else?”

“Hello,” said Molly. “You’re saying you sent someone to tail us?” 

Rakasha nodded. 

Molly’s expression was caught between irritation and relief. “I _knew_ it. I knew someone was following us.”

“He did,” Caleb confirmed. His chest tightened uncomfortably as all eyes turned to him. He ducked his head, pressing one hand to the hidden outline of the Book of the Damned, and tried to ignore the feeling of being pinned like a beetle under a collector’s pin.

“Fuck it, then.” Beau threw up her hands. “Might as well pile some more stupid onto Stupid Mountain. It’s not like this could get us all killed or anything.”

The group’s attention turned to Beau, and Caleb exhaled, shoulders relaxing slightly.

Something touched Caleb’s hand. He glanced down and found Nott staring up at him, concern in her wide golden eyes. She returned his shaky smile with a sharp-toothed yet reassuring one. “It’s alright, Caleb. If it comes down to it, we can always run.”

Caleb looked away. The others had gone back to talking—or arguing, really—and were no longer paying him or Nott a shred of attention. “Can we?” His voice shook. He cleared his throat, willing the tremor in his hands to still. 

Nott took his hand, holding him steady. “No,” she said. Her voice was as firm and sure as her grip. “No, I don’t think we can.”

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Molly hung back as Cree and the rest of the Mighty Nein traipsed away down the alley, calling various thank-yous and much-obligeds to Rakasha as they went. Molly stood with his back to Rakasha’s house, coat wrapped tight around his shoulders, hands clenched beneath the multicolored folds. 

“Molly!” Beau waved impatiently. “You comin’ or what?”

Molly unclenched his fists, willing his hands to stay steady. “In a moment. Just need some time alone with my mother.” The words felt alien on his tongue. He didn’t have a mother. _Lucien_ had a mother. Mollymauk Tealeaf had no family but the one he’d made. 

“Better hurry the fuck up.” Beau glanced back at him over her shoulder as she stepped out onto the street, following Yasha and her prisoner. “We’re not past leaving your ass, y’know.”

Molly grinned, knowing it would piss her off if she could see him. “Patience, Beau. You should learn it.”

“Fuck you, Molly.”

“Fuck you too, Beau!”

For a long moment after Beau turned the corner and disappeared, Molly stood frozen, chest tight, fingers numb and trembling. “So. I’m assuming there’re some things you want to say to me?”

Rakasha sighed. She stood slightly behind him, in the shadow cast by the candle at her feet. “So many things. But we haven’t got time, so I’ll keep it short and sweet.” He heard the smile in her voice as she added, “Short and sweet, like your friend Nott. She was so lovely to me. She knows what it’s like for us. For all of us.”

“I like Nott.” Molly cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, or if he wanted it to get there. “We’ve had our differences, but she’s a good person. Even if she can’t always see it.”

Rakasha’s tone turned bittersweet. “Like Caleb Widogast. He thinks he’s a monster.”

Molly clenched his fists. He stared at the end of the alley, adamantly refusing to turn around. “Did he tell you that, or is this casual speculation?”

“People don’t have to say things to tell me things. There’s enough to learn in the words that go unsaid.” Rakasha paused. Silence sat heavy and breathless between them.

“He’s not a monster.” Molly fought the anger burning in his chest, the choking spite born of fear. “He’s a good friend to all of us, not just Nott. And he’s a damn good man.”

“I never said he wasn’t.”

“Speaking of words unsaid.”

Rakasha sighed again. “He’s dangerous. Volatile. And that book—the book that took your father’s mind—it’s sinking its fangs in even now.” A beat of silence. “Your father’s curse passed to you. That book, it’s evil. Even as a child, it was killing you.” She shook her head, voice soft and sad again. “You’ll never stop bleeding, will you?” 

Molly clenched his fists until they hurt. Before he could walk away, his mother’s hesitant touch stopped him. He didn’t turn around, but paused, holding his breath. An unnamable emotion, half fury, half grief, coiled in his chest and sank into his bones. 

“Mollymauk,” Rakasha whispered. “You’ve been through so much. Terrible things, things that could have broken you. But here you are. You came back, after all this time.”

Molly shrugged one shoulder—the one his mother grasped. “No point dwelling on a past you can’t change, and no point in changing a past at all, even if you can.”

Rakasha didn’t reply for a long moment. She squeezed his shoulder. “I want you to remember, when things get bad, that every story can have a happy ending. If you reach the last page and you’re not satisfied, pick up a pen.”

Molly blinked. His throat constricted and his chest tightened. “I can’t read,” he said. Thankfully, his voice didn’t shake at all. He laughed. “Well, not very well. Some basic things. Enough to get by.”

“Then tell the stories you want to hear.” Rakasha’s hand fell away. “Make a story of yourself, darling.”

Molly turned and met her gaze. “I think I’d make a fantastic story.” He smiled and she returned it, fangs glinting in the dim candlelight. He reached out and cupped her cheek; she raised her hand and covered his, holding it there for a long moment. She closed her eyes. He pulled his hand away and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Go underground,” he said. “Stay safe. With the Moonweaver’s favor, our paths will cross again.”

Rakasha stayed silent as Molly spun around and strode down the alley. Then she called after him, her soft voice carrying in the narrow passage. “Be careful, _mahthrahk’ahsh._ The world is a cruel place. If we let it, it will make monsters of us all.”

Molly hesitated for a heartbeat, cloaked in shadows stretching between crumbling stone walls. Then he continued, coat sweeping behind him, bright colors muted and dull in the darkness. The candle’s red light followed him to the end of the alley, nipping at his heels as he stepped out onto the street. As he paused for a moment to get his bearings, something slid out of his belt and fluttered to the ground. Stooping, he picked it up. 

Three bent tarot cards, lying like little dead birds in his open palms. Holding his breath, he turned them over.

_The Magician._

_The Moon._

_The Tower._

The cards slipped from numb fingers. 

He didn’t stick around to watch them fall. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm headed to Rose City Comicon this weekend and I can't wait to see all the awesome Critters and cosplayers!!! <3 
> 
> Thank you times a million to everyone who's left feedback/comments/kudos/messages/etc on this story!! I appreciate you all so very much :,D <3


	23. Part III Chapter XXIII: Trust and Truth

****

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

****

**TRUST AND TRUTH**

They made their way out of Rexxentrum through the sewers. Predictable, Yasha thought, yet guards seemed willing to let criminals escape if it meant not swimming in shit. Unfortunately, that meant the criminals were forced to swim through shit instead. Yasha didn’t really mind the sewers, but Molly, Jester, and Nott’s constant complaining grew tiring after the first half hour. Yasha, despite being hindered by the chain attached to her stoically silent prisoner, offered to carry them; Nott eagerly took her up on her offer, as did Beau, who had seemed perfectly content to fend for herself up until that point. Yasha perched Nott on one shoulder and draped Beau over the other, sheathing Beau’s staff alongside her greatsword. After that, the complaining grew less frequent, much to Yasha’s relief. There was the occasional lamentation from the tieflings over wasted perfume and ruined clothing, but apart from that, the rest of the journey passed in uneventful silence. 

Exactly two hours after leaving Rakasha’s house (according to Caleb’s remarkable time sense) they passed under the city walls. With the Traveler’s blessing and a little luck, they evaded the keen watch of the guards stationed along the turrets and escaped into the surrounding countryside. Out of sight of the city, they made camp in a copse of oak trees. Although dawn’s first light was visible in the east, no one had slept well since gods didn’t know when, and Yasha could feel the exhaustion hanging in the air like a poisonous gas.

When they reached the edge of a little forest, Cree broke off from the group, saying only that she had business elsewhere, and that she’d be back before nightfall of the next day. Before anyone could question her, she disappeared into the trees, her dark fur blending with the sprawling shadows under low-hanging branches. 

° ° °

Once the bedspreads were laid and a small fire constructed at the center of the circle, Yasha found the strongest tree in the copse and chained her prisoner to it. Baring her teeth, she got close enough for her prisoner to see the storm roiling in her eyes. “I will kill you. Now or later, that’s your choice.”

Her prisoner grinned, a flash of taunting white in the growing dark. She leaned toward Yasha, straining against her chains. “Coward. Keeping me chained. What’s the point? Why not face me like a real warrior?”

“You know why.” Yasha straightened up and took a step back. “I’m taking you back to Xhorhas. Your head isn’t the only one I want.”

Her prisoner laughed. “Oh, Yasha. Sentiment is a disease. You were made for better things. Love is for the thrill of battle and blood, not beating hearts and warm lips.”

“You don’t know what love is, Keyra. There’s no love in you.” Yasha turned away.

Keyra laughed again. “All this for a dead woman. Let it go, Yasha. The dead are beyond saving.” 

Yasha looked back at Keyra over her shoulder. Through the grief and anger coursing through her like electricity, she managed a small, bitter smile. “Not always,” she said. Before Keyra could respond, she turned away, back toward the flickering fire and the hushed voices of her friends.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“You are _not_ goin’ to the fuckin’ Academy, Jester, and that’s final.” Fjord crossed his arms over his chest. The rest of the group stood in a half-circle around the firepit, facing him across the dull remains of the ashes. Fjord had no idea when he’d become the de-facto decision maker for the group, but at the moment their trust in his judgement felt somewhat misplaced.

“You don’t make my decisions for me, _Fjord_.” The bitterness in Jester’s voice was like a physical slap to the face. Fjord smothered a sigh as she mirrored his posture, raising her chin and lashing her tail. “Molly, Caleb, and Nott didn’t have even close to enough time to look at all the dusty old books in that library. If they missed anything about the Book of the Damned, it’s super important that we find it so that we can avoid getting cursed or sent to hell or something.”

“While you were takin’ care of Molly—and we’re all grateful for that, I’m sure—some of us talked to Rakasha about that book.” Fjord nodded at Beau, Nott, and Caleb. “They can back me up when I say it is the single most dangerous artifact in existence.”

“Yeah.” Beau poked at a clump of embers with her staff. “Since it’s literally, y’know. From hell.”

Caleb cleared his throat. Fjord looked at him, as did everyone else. Caleb looked down at his feet, blushing slightly and picking at a stray thread on his scarf. “It is not the most dangerous artifact in existence, but it is certainly among the most dangerous artifacts available to mortals. It is from the Age of Arcanum, one of the rare artifacts left over from that age, and is full of dark magic beyond the imagination of any lich, warlock, or necromancer alive in the world today.” Caleb shifted from one foot to the other, expression betraying nothing as he continued. It was as if he were a professor, and this was a lecture he’d given a thousand times. The detachment, which would have seemed like boredom or disinterest to a stranger, gave Fjord the distinct impression that this was a subject that caused Caleb considerable anxiety and pain. “This book was given to mortals by Bensozia, a consort of Asmodeus, King of Hell. Those who read it and used its magic were infected by it—they were changed by the violence and malice contained in these pages.” He touched the faint outline of the enormous tome tucked under his coat.

Caleb looked up. Fjord followed his gaze to Mollymauk, who looked both enraptured and disturbed by this information. “The people who followed Bensozia’s teachings began writing their own spells and rituals. They got greedy. And what began as a small cult of fanatics became an epidemic of fiend-worship that swept up many powerful mages, sorcerers, and warlocks. As they filled the blank pages of the Book with evil rituals of their own, most of them succumbed to its power. Bensozia devoured their souls, feeding her own power, consuming their essence forever.”

Fjord realized he was holding his breath. Judging by the collective exhale of his companions, he wasn’t the only one.

“What about the ones who didn’t accidentally kill themselves trying to be ridiculously powerful and stuff?” Jester tilted her head.

Caleb glanced up at Molly again, then back at his feet. When he spoke, his voice was so soft Fjord barely caught the words. “They were corrupted beyond recognition. Eventually, they became fiends themselves. Or rather, they became tieflings. Tieflings marked by the Blood of Bensozia, bound to her through the Book itself. For generations, the line of Bensozia has kept the artifact hidden; when the Age of Arcanum came crashing down, it was saved by anonymity and lucky—or unlucky, depending on your perspective—circumstances. And so here it is. One and a half millennia later.” As he spoke, Caleb traced the outline of the Book. Fjord frowned, watching a fanatic light flicker to life in his eyes. “Rakasha is one of the last in a long line of marked tieflings. That’s what she told me, at least.” For the third time, his gaze flickered to Molly, then back to the ground. “That’s how she knows all this. All these things that you cannot find in any book in any library in the world.”

A long, heavy silence followed. Even Jester stayed quiet, looking downcast and unsure. Fjord, like everyone else, was trying not to look at Molly. After all, what were they supposed to say to him? _Sorry you’re cursed? Sorry you’re marked by the sins of your ancestors?_ It was a cruel joke, Fjord thought, for Molly to be marked like this. Molly, who wore the flashiest, gaudiest clothing and crafted the most outlandish personality to hide the reminders of a past he desperately wanted to forget. The red marks he could hide with tattoos. The scars he could explain away with a slice of his scimitars. But his lavender complexion and blood-red eyes couldn’t be concealed. There was no story clever or wild enough to cover up the truth of his family’s crimes.

“Well.” Molly’s voice shook. Fjord looked up to see he’d taken a step back from the group, tail lashing, chin down. He looked ready to bolt at any second. “That’s a fun bit of history.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “I understand if none of you want anything to do with me now. If this thing, this book, is so dangerous, I should take it. I should leave before the people coming after me get you all killed.”

“Oh, Molly.” Jester stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what some stupid idiots did a thousand and a half years ago. That’s so many fucking years it doesn’t even matter if you might sort of look kind of like people who worshipped a stupid devil goddess back then. You’re totally not responsible at all for anything those people did. You’re a really good person, and we all love you so much and never, ever want you to leave. Right?” She turned to look at the rest of them over her shoulder, eyes narrowed in a way that said _you better agree with me right now or else._

“That’s right, Molly.” Fjord nodded. “You’ve got nothin’ to apologize for. Nothin’ says you’ve gotta go down the same path as your ancestors.”

Molly returned the nod, along with the shadow of a smile. “I appreciate that.”

“Molly.” Yasha moved to stand beside him. She shifted awkwardly, picking at her rawhide belt. “I know I leave all the time. I don’t want to, and I know that it’s hard for you, but it’s something I have to do.” She exhaled shakily. “If you leave, I’ll be so afraid for you. I promised I’d protect you. So please. Let me keep my promise.”

“Yasha.” Molly smiled softly. “Gods, what did I do to deserve you?”

“You’re you,” Yasha said.

Before Molly could reply (or start crying, which seemed equally likely), Beau, who had moved to stand by Molly’s other side, punched him half-heartedly in the shoulder. “I catch you feeling sorry for yourself or guilty about any of that bullshit, I’m gonna kick your ass, Molly.”

Molly’s glare was as halfhearted as her punch. “Well, if that’s the case, Beau, I’m considering leaving now regardless of any other circumstances.”

Beau rolled her eyes. “Oh, grow up.”

“You’re the one who needs to grow up. I’m clearly the adult here.”

“Aaaaand we’re back to normal,” said Nott. “Also, if everyone is done talking about ancient cursed books and demons—” 

“Devils.”

“— _devils_ and things, we should probably figure out what we’re doing before Cree comes back. I don’t know about any of you, but I don’t trust her, and I’d rather she not know about all our plans and strategies if we can help it.”

Fjord, who had forgotten about Cree’s part in all this, nodded. “Agreed. Let’s try’n get our shit together in the next couple hours, then take another rest and figure out how we wanna do this.”

“Let’s take a short break right now,” said Beau. “Everyone back here in ten minutes?”

The group split up. Fjord stood by the fire and watched the others disperse; some went for the food and supplies, others back to their beds. As soon as Molly was free of Jester’s crushing embrace, Yasha knelt before him, and he fell against her with his face pressed into her shoulder and his arms wrapped tight around her torso. She whispered something to him and he laughed, the sound bright with amusement and relief.

With the uncomfortable feeling of intruding on a painfully intimate moment, Fjord turned away. Sitting down on a rock a few paces from camp, he summoned his falchion and pulled out a whetstone he didn’t need. As he honed the blade’s already razor-sharp edge, he thought back to the beginning of the conversation. 

_Jester wants to go to the Academy._ The thought sent shivers down his spine. Something bad had happened to Caleb at the Academy. Despite Fjord’s previous intentions of applying to the school himself, now that he’d been to Rexxentrum and seen more of the Empire in general, he found the idea repulsive. In the end, though, none of that really mattered. If Jester was going, then so was he. He might not be in the right place to pursue a romantic relationship with her, but he’d be damned if he let her go alone. If the collective warnings and pleas of the party wouldn’t convince her to stay, then he would do his best to keep her safe. Despite what had transpired between them in the Greying Wildlands, he trusted her kind heart and loving nature. She would do anything to save any of them. Caring about things was too much a part of her. She cared so much that Fjord was worried—scared, even—that someday it would break her heart in two.

Fjord looked down at the falchion. His reflection stared back at him in the polished metal, broken only by a ridge of barnacles like tiny white mountains. Green skin, golden eyes. He was as marked as anyone. He knew what it was like to be judged, to be hated, because of how he’d been made, rather than by who he was.

He was shaken from his thoughts by Nott’s delighted shriek, followed by Jester’s raucous laughter. Smiling and shaking his head, Fjord glanced up and out at the green meadows stretching away in a sea of growing green. _Trust_ , he thought. _We’re gettin’ there._

Sunlight spilled over the distant mountains and hills. The day rose like a great golden dragon, flashing across the sky in a burst of radiant warmth.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Caleb told them everything. He knew it would happen, one way or another. The truth was dangerous, vicious. Mollymauk had said that what felt like an age ago, back in a tiny cramped room in Zadash, and Caleb had understood. There were some things that belonged to silence. But this thing—this horrible, twisted, burning thing inside Caleb’s chest—this truth no longer belonged to Caleb alone. If Fjord and Jester were going to the Academy to conduct research and perform acts of espionage on members of the Empire’s highest orders, they deserved to know what they were walking into.

So he told them. All of it, every painful detail spilling out of him like poison drawn from a wound. He stared at his feet, avoiding the expressions of horror and disbelief on his companions’ faces. He kept talking even as his hands went numb and his voice no longer felt like his own, a stranger listing the crimes of a wanted man. 

As soon as he finished his story, Jester moved forward to hug him. Before she could, Beau and Nott stepped between them, Nott holding up both hands in a ‘stay back!’ gesture. Beau put a staying hand on Jester’s shoulder.

“Hey, hold up, Jester.” Beau’s voice was low and firm. “Just… give him some space. This isn’t something we can fix. He’s made that clear to me before; just let him do this on his terms.”

Nott nodded emphatically. “I second that. Exactly what she said.”

Caleb sighed. “I… uh, I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, Nott, Beauregard. But I’m alright.” He forced himself to meet Jester’s gaze. Her eyes were full of tears, half-dried tracks running down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. “Jester. I am not usually one for touch or physical comfort, but that is not because I do not enjoy it from the right people.” He gently moved Beau aside, and Nott stepped back to let him pass. “I think I would like to be comforted by you.”

Jester sobbed. She threw her arms around him, one arm around his waist and the other cupping the side of his neck. She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “It’s so totally not your fault, Caleb. I mean, I know you won’t believe me, but it’s _true_.” He saw the conviction in her eyes, sadness that cut soul deep. There was no judgement. No disgust, no bitterness. In that moment she was an inverse reflection of himself. “You’re not a person who would do those terrible things on your own. You were tricked. Horrible people tricked you, Caleb, and we’ll make them pay for it. Me and Fjord, we’ll go into that shitty school and find some way to bring them all down.” She swallowed, voice shaking, little lost bird in a summer storm. “It isn’t your fault, Caleb. That is the truth.”

 _The truth._ Caleb bit back bitter laughter. _Who decides what is the truth?_ Tentatively, he patted Jester’s shoulder. He looked past her to where the others stood in a half-circle, watching him with the same discomfort and wariness they’d shown toward Molly only minutes earlier. “I do not expect any of you to understand, and I do not want your sympathy. But if you are willing and able to help me bring these people to justice, then I would gladly accept your aid.” Caleb swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “Fjord, Jester.” He pulled away from Jester in order to properly look at her. “I would not recommend going to the Academy for any purpose, let alone for the purpose that you have proposed. But if you will not listen to reason—” he paused, averting his gaze slightly to the left, focusing on Jester’s horn instead of her face, “—then I would suggest giving you a full debriefing of the Academy and its functions, leaders, and customs before you throw yourselves head-first into that vipers’ nest.”

Jester’s nod was enthusiastic, Fjord’s less so. “That’s a solid suggestion, Caleb,” said Fjord. “After we’re done with this meetin’ we can step aside to go over everythin’ of relevance to our particular mission.”

“Mission _sss_ ,” Jester corrected, turning to face Fjord. “We’re researching the Book _and_ doing surveillance stuff. So, we’re basically spies now, technically.”

Fjord made a poor attempt to stifle a sigh. “Caleb? You alright with this plan?”

Caleb nodded. “ _Ja_. Whenever you are ready, I will debrief you.”

Jester grinned. “See? _Debrief._ We’re totally spies now, you guys.”

Caleb smiled very, very slightly as Fjord heaved another long-suffering sigh. But then his chest tightened, and his hands began to shake as the reality of their situation sank in. _I cannot go with them_ , he thought with a shock of fear. _But I will do all I can to keep them safe._

And once he’d done that, he could only pray to the gods that it would be enough.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“Yasha. _Yasha._ You can’t fuckin’ leave right now!” Beau punched a tree. Bark split off and rained down. Beau whirled to face Yasha, who stood still and silent as a marble statue only a few paces from where her prisoner was bound to the trunk of an ancient oak. “This is bullshit. We need you _here_. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re Molly’s goddamned lifeline, and if you leave, I don’t wanna know what kind of stupid shit he might pull.” Beau paused for breath, her chest aching with something beyond airlessness. “And it’s not just him. We need everyone to pitch in and do their part. Are we a team or not? Because if you’re gonna keep running off when things get tough, you should just—”

Yasha cut her off with a snarl. “Beau.” Her voice was loud and rough, rougher than Beau had ever heard it. “You don’t know me. You really don’t know me.”

Beau blinked. Her eyes stung. She clenched her fists, spun around, and punched the tree three more times, following it up with a brutal kick. As if all her energy had passed through her knuckles and into the unyielding trunk, she staggered back, crouching down and pressing her palms to her eyes. 

“You don’t know me, Beau.” Yasha’s voice was soft again. When Beau stood to face her, Yasha’s face was a mask of remorse and pain. “You can’t understand why I have to go back to Xhorhas, but I have to. I hate myself for it. But this, right here—” her gaze flickered to her prisoner, then back to Beau, “—is what I’ve worked so hard for. This is my chance to make things right, to find the justice I’ve been searching for since before I met you all.” She closed her eyes and ducked her head. Her white-tipped hair fell into her face, braided, matted. Beautiful. “I hope to find peace in justice. And until I do, the storm in me can’t rest, and neither can I.”

Beau wiped angrily at her eyes. “Why can’t you wait? We can find somewhere to lock her up—” she jerked her head at the prisoner, “—until we’ve figured out the rest of this shit. I can find someone to watch her, someone from the Cobalt Reserves—”

“Beau, the Storm Lord told me to take this opportunity whenever or however it came. _This will change everything_ , he told me in a dream. _Not just for you, but for all of Wildemount._ ” Yasha ran her fingers through her hair, gripping it for a second before reaching back to touch the hilt of her greatsword. “I have to go now. I’m sorry.”

Beau wanted to yell at her. She wanted to grab her by the front of her armor and shake her, to get right up in her face and say, _Fuck you, Yasha! Fuck you and your stupid god! Fuck destiny, fuck fate, and fuck the future. Fuck all of it and stay. Just stay, okay?_

Beau closed her eyes. The wind blew through new leaves, warm and spring scented. When she opened her eyes again, Yasha was watching her, anguish written in every striking line and curve of her face. Tears clung to Beau’s lashes, blurring her vision. Yasha’s face faded, features blending. Beau blinked. The tears fell. She moved to wipe them away, hands shaking, fingers numb.

 _Don’t cry,_ she told herself. _Don’t cry, because that means there’s something worth crying over._

Beau turned away. “Fine. Whatever. Go or don’t go, I don’t care.”

“You don’t mean that, Beau,” Yasha whispered. “I really hope you don’t mean that.”

Beau wiped her face on her arm wrappings. _Fuck you, Yasha. Fuck you for making me feel._

“I’ll tell the others. I won’t just leave, I promise.” Yasha approached, soft footfalls on the forest floor, the heavy, sure tread of a seasoned warrior and hunter.

Beau clenched her fists. She stared at the distant glow of the campfire through the trees. “Okay,” she said. She spun around, shoulders back, chin up. Yasha was only a pace away now. The hesitance on Yasha’s face was clear; she was frowning, brows pinched together and head tilted down. Beau took another step toward her, getting right up in her space. “You’re right,” she said. Yasha opened her mouth, tilting her head quizzically, but Beau cut her off with a sharp gesture. “I don’t know you,” she said.

“Beau, I—” 

“ _I don’t know you._ But I want to. If you’ll let me.” Beau swallowed hard, clenching and unclenching her fists. “If you leave, I’m comin’ with you. One time you told me I might like Xhorhas, that someday you could take me there. Remember that? Well, we’ll never know unless I go there. So let’s go. Let’s get the fuck out of the Empire and get you some justice, or whatever you’re looking for. Fuck it. I’ve learned not to give up on good things. I’m tired of letting go.”

The way Yasha was looking at her, Beau could’ve been a second sun rising in a midnight sky. “It’ll be dangerous.”

Beau laughed hysterically. “Have you met me?”

“I don’t know you,” Yasha said. “But I’d like to. And if you’re willing to share my road, then you’re more than welcome.”

Before she could start crying again, Beau reached out and punched Yasha lightly on the shoulder. She summoned a shaky grin. “It’s a date,” she said, and Yasha’s soft laughter was worth a thousand tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always big Beauyasha hours in this house 💙⚡
> 
> Okay so I was at Rose City Comic Con this weekend and I met so many amazing Critters!! And I even met a few people who recognized me from Tumblr who have read/are reading this fic, which was the most amazing and surreal thing ever; this fandom is the fucking best and I love y'all so much!!! 💕😭💕


	24. Part III Chapter XXIV: The Beginning of the End

****

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

****

**THE BEGINNING OF THE END**

Nott was ninety-nine percent sure she was the only sane person left in the party. Jester and Fjord were off with Caleb plotting how to get into the Academy, Beau and Molly were yelling at each other while Yasha tried desperately to explain herself, and Nott… well, she had no idea how she fit into any of this. She didn’t want to go to the Academy. She didn’t want to go to Xhorhas. She wanted to go to some little village in the middle of nowhere and lay low until all of this passed, like a normal sane person would, but she was pretty sure no one could hear her over all the commotion, let alone listen to what she had to say. So she did what she usually did in stressful situations: she stuck to the shadows and drank like a fish.

Just as Molly and Beau exhausted themselves and Yasha finally got a word in, Caleb, Fjord, and Jester returned to the clearing and the whole thing started all over again, with even more vigor than before. Incredibly, Jester’s yelling was somehow louder than Beau’s and Molly’s combined; Nott wondered if the guards back in Rexxentrum could hear it. At the very least they’d probably scared off every bird that had ever lived in the forest, and the evening had just begun.

Nott made it through approximately nine shots of whiskey before the chaos died down again. Everyone looked defeated and resigned, even Jester, who stood between Fjord and Caleb with her head down and her tail drooping listlessly. Molly was pacing. Yasha was watching him. Beau was standing by Yasha, closer than usual, and Yasha was letting her. Fjord had one hand covering half his face, the picture of defeat. Caleb, looking up, met Nott’s gaze across the clearing and slipped away to join her.

“Do you mind…?” He held out his hand, and Nott handed him her flask. He drank deep and handed it back, wiping his mouth, visibly shuddering. “This is a fucking disaster.”

“Yes,” said Nott. “We are, aren’t we?”

Caleb smiled faintly. “Yasha and Beau are going to Xhorhas. Jester and Fjord are going to the Academy.”

Nott was afraid to ask for details. Taking another long swig, she steeled herself. “And you, Caleb? What are you going to do?”

Caleb shrugged one shoulder. He sighed. 

Nott followed his gaze across the clearing. “You’re going with Molly, aren’t you?”

Caleb was silent for a long moment. “We can’t let him go alone.”

“He has Cree.”

“Does he? How do we know we can trust her? Otis only wanted Mollymauk because of what he could do. Once Cree realizes that Lucien is gone, or somehow manages to bring back those memories completely, what then? Would it be a sort of death, for him to lose who he is now? I think it might be.”

The world tilted. Nott lifted her arms to steady herself before she could stumble back and fall on her ass. Her head felt fuzzy. Words stuck to her tongue, blending and blurring. “’S not our problem, Caleb. We have to care about us, and just us. I mean, we can care about these people—I really do, and I would never want anything bad to happen to them—but if they’re splitting up, what can we do?”

“We can not abandon them. The others are in pairs. Molly isn’t going to Xhorhas, and he’s not going to the Academy. He made that very clear, as I’m sure you heard.” Caleb smiled humorlessly. “He is angry, Nott, not because he is actually angry, but because he’s scared. He has never been alone in his life—his more recent lives, at least—for more than a day or two. Not since he was… _born,_ if that is the right word for it.” Caleb took another long drink from the flask, then handed it back. “Cree does not know Mollymauk. And if he has no one left who knows him, how is he supposed to remember who he is?”

Nott frowned. “I… well, I’m extremely drunk right now and I don’t expect anything I say to make sense, let alone be useful, but I’m going to say things anyway. And the most important thing is that, if you care about this that much, I’ll go with you. You know that. But I’m going to tell you right now that it’s not the right idea. It’s not a _good_ idea, at least. So if it goes sideways, I can’t promise I won’t run. I’m not as brave as you all think I am. And I will do my best to do my best, but… but I’m just as scared as anyone. That book, it’s cursed, and it’s evil, and it has destroyed so many people who were much more powerful than you.” She swallowed hard. “I’m not asking you to do what I say. I’m asking you to consider what I’m saying.”

Caleb ducked his head. He sighed. Absently, he traced the ridge of the Book’s spine, faintly visible under the folds of his coat. “It is powerful, yes. But I conducted a ritual from it, and it worked. I haven’t experienced any ill effects, Nott, and I don’t think that I will. There was this… _connection._ I am not sure how else to put it.” He paused, grimacing. “It is cursed, yes. But there are secrets in these pages, untapped potential, that has not been seen since the Age of Arcanum. I am not saying I should use it. But think about all the things I could do, what I could accomplish, with the secrets buried in this book.” His voice took on a fanatic edge. Nott saw fire flash in his eyes, red and gold overtaking vibrant blue. Then he blinked, and it was gone. “I will not use it until I understand it. But I mean to understand it. Once Fjord and Jester find anything, or when Mollymauk remembers or rediscovers what this book is for, and how he lost it, then I will see. Until then, I promise I will not do more than flip through the pages.”

Nott shook her head. She tucked her flask into its pouch, hands trembling so much it was a miracle she didn’t drop it. “This is your choice, Caleb. I want you to get better. Stronger. More powerful. But this isn’t the way to do it.”

Caleb didn’t look at her. He was watching Molly again, tracing the pattern Molly’s feet left in the dirt as he paced. “I’m going with him, Nott. He doesn’t want to know his past, but it has found him nevertheless. And now, with Cree, and whoever else is left of the Tombtakers, he will run. Those people, Torrent, they will come after him. Mollymauk won’t be safe until this is over.”

“This isn’t just about the Book, is it?”

Another long silence. “Nothing is ever about one thing. The Book may help me change many things for the better. Like the dodecahedron, there is a possibility that it contains power strong enough to alter reality itself. I don’t know the extent of either object’s power, so I am going with Mollymauk to find out.”

“You want to go back in time to save your parents.” Nott’s voice shook. Her hand inched back toward her flask; she caught herself and pulled back, gritting her teeth and shaking her head to clear it. “Caleb, I understand why you want to do that, but have you thought about what that will do to the rest of us? If you change reality, nothing will be the same. You’ll never go to that asylum. You’ll never meet me, or help me get out. It’s very possible I will die in that prison where we met.” Temptation tugged at her. She caved, pulling out her flask, drinking long and hard before continuing. “The people at the Academy—the people you worked with for all those years—had everything to do with what happened to Lucien. It was a spellcaster from the Cerberus Assembly who conducted, and botched, that ritual. If you change the past, how do you know that ritual will happen? If it doesn’t, Mollymauk will never exist.” She drank again. “It’ll be Lucien walking around in his body. As for the rest—for Yasha and Fjord and Jester and Beau—what if they never meet? Maybe Fjord, Jester, and Beau will. But Yasha… I don’t know where Yasha came from, or what happened to her, or where she’s going or why. But I do know that she and Molly saved each other, in a way. And I think that, if Molly never exists, Yasha might never find that connection with anyone else. And then what? Where does that leave us, Caleb?”

Caleb opened his mouth, then closed it again as if unable to find the words to reply. Finally, he whispered, “They are my parents, and I murdered them. I have to fix it.”

“We’re your friends, Caleb. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Nott’s chest tightened. Her vision blurred, knees weak, unsteady. “Don’t I mean anything to you?”

Caleb knelt, or fell to his knees—Nott couldn’t tell which—and put his hands on her shoulders. He pressed his forehead to hers. His breath hitched, and when he spoke, his voice cracked and broke. “Nott, you mean everything to me. Without you…” His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I owe you my life many times over. I owe you so much more than that.” 

“It’s okay, Caleb.” She cupped his face in both hands, letting the tears fall freely down her cheeks. “I understand. But there’s a point where you have to stop running, and start living. Where do you draw that line, Caleb? How will you know when you’ve gone too far?”

Caleb shook his head. He inhaled, ragged and shaky. He didn’t respond; after a long moment, he pulled away, standing up and turning back toward the clearing. “I am going to learn what I can,” he said. “And I am going to help Mollymauk come to terms with his past.”

“How can you help him when you can’t even come to terms with your own past?” The words slipped out before Nott could stop them. Caleb shot her a startled, pained look. “I’m sorry, Caleb,” she slurred, reaching for his hand. He didn’t reciprocate the gesture. Her hand fell limply back to her side. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s true.” Caleb’s expression was blank. Cold. “Mollymauk was right. The truth is vicious. But I will find it, if I can. Sometimes the only way to learn is through pain.”

Watching Caleb’s retreating back as he stepped out of the shadows and back into the clearing, Nott’s skin crawled, blood running cold. _Those were Ikithon’s words._ She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Blinking rapidly, she hesitated for a moment longer, crouched in the darkness, watching. Waiting.

“Mollymauk.” Caleb’s voice carried across the clearing. “Wherever you plan to go, I am coming with you. I’m curious about Torrent, the Tombtakers, and the Book of the Damned, as well as concerned for your wellbeing.” A pause. “I hope that arrangement works for you. If not, Nott and I will continue alone, as we did before. If this is the end of the Mighty Nein, then it is what it is. But if it is not, I would like to stay a part of it. I may not be strong like Jester, or agile like Nott or Beau, but I know an astonishing amount of things about an astonishing amount of things—” a small, secret smile, “—and I am willing to fight for my friends. If that’s enough for you, Mollymauk, then I would share your road. Wherever it may lead.”

Nott crossed the clearing to stand across the fire from the others, just close enough to see Molly’s expression.

Molly looked like he was, once again, on the verge of tears. Reaching out, he touched Caleb’s shoulder, then slid his hand up to cup Caleb’s jaw. “Wherever it may lead,” he replied. Caleb smiled softly, and Molly beamed. He patted Caleb’s cheek, then stepped away, back toward Yasha and Beau. Yasha put an arm around his shoulders and he leaned into her. The whole time, his eyes never left Caleb’s face. Caleb looked away, but the softness in his expression lingered.

Nott cleared her throat loudly. Jester and Beau, who had fallen silent for the duration of Caleb and Molly’s exchange, turned their attention to her a few second after the rest. “We’re a bunch of terrible people,” Nott said. “We’re total assholes. Most of us are hated far more than your Average Joe, at least, and unless we want to add members of our own party to that lists of haters, we have to stop yelling at each other and start trusting each other. Even a tiny bit. And yes, I know, coming from me that might seem ironic, or at least suspicious. But I’ve changed since we all met in that tavern in Trostenwald, and some of that change is because of you. A lot of that change, actually.” She paused to take a long swig from her flask. “It takes a lot to trust someone. I don’t trust anyone. Or I didn’t.” She let her words hang over them. “We may not always be friends, but we’re family. Right now, we’re broke, homeless criminals with fucked up pasts and less-than-bright futures. The only thing we’ve got going for us is each other. So shut the fuck up about who’s right about what, and who should do what, and let the things that need to happen, happen.” 

She turned to Beau and Yasha. “I don’t need to know why you’re doing what you’re doing, Yasha. I trust that it’s a good reason, because you’re a good person. And Beau, I know exactly why you’re doing what _you’re_ doing—I don’t think anyone here doesn’t—and honestly? It’s fucking beautiful.” She raised her flask in a salute, then downed another big gulp. “Take that prisoner back to Xhorhas, or whatever you’re doing. Fix whatever needs fixing.”

She whirled to face Fjord and Jester. “I hate that you two have to go to that terrible, awful place, but you’re doing it even though you know all the risks. Fjord, I don’t know anything about your past other than that you sometimes puke saltwater, and you’re an orphan who got teased because of your tusks. So I’m going to tell you this: let your tusks grow. Metaphorically, or physically, or both. Whatever you want. But those kids who teased you, imagine what they’d think if they saw you now. A spy infiltrating the highest ranks of the Empire itself, foiling a potentially catastrophic, world-ending cultist plot to recover a dangerous magical artifact from a long-lost mystical age.” 

She paused as her train of thought derailed. It took her a long second to remember what she was going to say. When she did, the words poured out all at once, tripping over themselves like newborn fawns. “Jester, your mom would probably shit a kitten if she knew you were doing this, but hopefully she’d be proud, too. I don’t know her. But what I do know is that the Traveler probably thinks this is the coolest shit ever. And even if I’m not there to be a spy with you, I know you can crack this case all by yourself. You don’t need a partner in crime, but I’m happy to be yours whenever you want one.” Jester started crying, and Nott realized she was, too. “Go solve this thing, Detective Lavorre. We’re all rooting for you.”

Last, she turned to Mollymauk and Caleb. “Molly, I’ve never really seen eye-to-eye with you on a lot of things, but even though you’re shady as hell and not as smart as you think you are—” this drew a smile from Molly and an exasperated shake of his head, “—I like you. I don’t trust you completely, but I think you’re a good person, and you’ve made me a better person, too.” Her gaze flickered to Caleb, then back to Molly. Caleb was staring at the ground. Molly was watching Caleb. “You could run from this,” Nott said. “You could disappear and start over and forget any of this ever happened, but you’re facing all of it head-on. Not because you want to know, but because you can’t let your past hurt anyone else. And that’s so brave. It’s a sacrifice, and even if we don’t always think of it like that, that’s what it is. That makes you twice a martyr, which, even if it’s impressive, is probably a record you should stop trying to beat.”

Molly laughed, shaking his head again. “Noted,” he said. “Go on.”

“I am going on,” said Nott. She hesitated for a moment before turning her full attention on Caleb. When she spoke, her voice cracked, and she had to start over again. “Caleb. You know everything I want to say to you. All of it could fill the pages of a book. The biggest book in the world.” She swallowed hard. She heard Jester sob softly; Fjord put an arm around her shoulder, and she turned and pressed her forehead against his side. “You’re my boy and I love you. And wherever you go, whenever you go, I’ll be there. I will always protect you. And I will never stop saving you.”

In the silence that followed, Nott stepped back until she could see the whole party at once. “Even if we’re parting ways for a while, it’s not a goodbye. We’re the Mighty Nein. No one else can be the Mighty Nein, so I guess we have to be. So… so buckle your belts and act like the immature adults that you are. Go out into the world and prank government officials. Accidentally start a revolution. Literally fuck the system, if that’s possible. If it is, Molly, Jester, I know you’ll figure something out.” She paused as they laughed, watery and real. “But don’t forget the stupid, weird, dysfunctional thing we have here. You don’t always get a second chance, but that’s what this is. Don’t throw it away.” She tucked her flask back under her cloak, lifting her chin and steadying herself. She looked from one person to the next, meeting their eyes and matching their smiles. “I may not trust you all, but I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

Beau was the first to gather herself enough to speak. She sniffled, wiping her face on her arm. “Great, now we’re all crying. Way to go, Nott.”

Yasha chuckled, which got Molly laughing. Jester joined in, and so did Beau. Fjord and Caleb smiled, shaking their heads in unison. Fjord’s laugh was short and low, but genuine. Caleb’s was soft and brief as spring rain.

Once the laughter died down, Jester held up her hand. “Nott, you didn’t say any nice things about Frumpkin!”

“Oh, shit!” Nott thought for a brief moment. “Frumpkin is a cat,” she said. “He’s very soft and he helps calm people down when they’re upset, and apparently he’s a very powerful fey spirit or something that only sticks around because he really likes Caleb, which is highly relatable. And even though he’s a cat, which people always say are loner assholes with no sense of companionship or love—all of which is horrid and false, for the record—he hasn’t left us, or tricked us, or abandoned us, or anything like that. He’s part of this stupid, dysfunctional family, and we like it that way. So Frumpkin, if you can hear me from the Feywild, we love you and miss you. I promise we’ll get Caleb some ritual supplies so he can bring you back as soon as possible.” Nott hesitated, wondering if she’d left anything out, and decided she hadn’t. “There. Now I got everyone.”

Beau whipped out a bottle of whiskey from gods didn’t even know where. “Stole it from that tavern back in Rexxentrum,” she explained before anyone could ask. “Pass it around.” She took a long swig and handed it to Yasha. “Here’s to shady fuckers with trust issues learning how to trust.”

Molly took the bottle from Yasha. He drank deeply, then passed it to Fjord. Leaning out until Beau could see him around Yasha, he grinned widely. “You think you’ll ever trust me, Beau?”

Beau scoffed. “I trust you about as far as I can throw you, Molly.”

“So pretty far. Excellent.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

Molly straightened up. Although neither Beau nor Molly could now see the other, they were both smirking, just this side of smiling. At least nothing had changed there, Nott thought, and for the first time found herself endeared rather than irritated by their bickering.

Once the bottle had been passed around several times, the group dispersed to gather up supplies and break down camp. Nott found Caleb on the edge of the clearing, packing up his sleeping roll and scant belongings. 

“Nott, I—”

“You don’t have to say anything to me, Caleb. I don’t trust the others. Not all the way. Not yet. But I trust you. I think, deep down, I always have.”

Caleb ducked his head. He didn’t reply. Instead, he reached out and took her hand. He squeezed, and she squeezed back.

“Everyone here is making stupid decisions,” Nott said. “There’s a high chance all of us are going to die. But if we do, it’ll be for a reason. What’s the point of surviving if you never get to live?”

“Let’s stop running,” Caleb said, “and start living.”

Nott pressed close to his side. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. And when we finally get revenge against Ikithon and all those terrible people who hurt you—when we get justice for _everyone_ they hurt—hopefully you can find peace.”

“We will find peace for you, too, Nott. Whenever you’re ready to find it.”

Nott ducked her head, blinking as her eyes stung and her heart beat faster. “And justice,” she said.

“And justice.”

For a long moment they stood like that, hands clasped, and didn’t say anything at all. There was nothing left to say. Just two wayward souls colliding in the endless dark.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Cree returned to find the camp empty. She panicked for a moment before spotting Yasha and Lucien—Mollymauk? No, he was still Lucien. He didn’t remember, that was all—unchaining Yasha’s prisoner from the trunk of a massive oak. She approached cautiously, tail tip flicking as she scanned the growing dark. 

“Cree.” Lucien smiled warily at her. “You’re back. Any chance at all you feel like telling us where you went?”

Cree considered not telling him. She didn’t trust the others, these weird, unpolished strangers cloaked in chaos and recklessness. But then again, if she wanted to get Lucien back, she’d have to make sacrifices. This information was one of them. 

“Tyffial Wase,” Cree said. “Do you remember her?”

Lucien shrugged one shoulder. “Rings a bell. I think Rakasha mentioned her?”

“She was following us, back in Rexxentrum.”

“Hmm, right. After the Academy.”

Cree nodded. “She’s waiting for us in Drubenlode.” She stifled a sigh at his blank look. “It’s the closest town to the south. Apparently, Tyffial thinks she should lie low after what she did at the prison.” She paused, trying to think of a delicate way to say what needed to be said. “Torrent is hunting us. They can’t be far behind us now. They’ve got assassins and spies everywhere in Rexxentrum, and not just there. The chances that they haven’t seen you here are minuscule, which means we need to move fast. And… and in a smaller group.”

To her surprise, this didn’t seem to faze any of them. 

“We’ve decided that’s the best plan of action, too,” said Lucien. “I’ll come with you, along with Caleb and Nott. The others are off to do other things.”

Cree narrowed her eyes. Discomfort stirred in her chest like a living thing. “What things?”

“Things that are none of your business.”

She thought about pressing the point but couldn’t risk delaying any longer. “Say your farewells,” she said shortly. “Then meet me on the edge of the forest. We’ll travel by night. It should take us at least three days to reach the village. Tyffial left markers along the easiest paths. We shouldn’t encounter anything too dangerous, but just in case, be on your guard. You never know who—or what—could be lying in wait for you in the dark places of the world.”

“And I thought I was dramatic,” said Lucien. “But I get your point.” He waved dismissively. “Bye bye.” 

The dismissal couldn’t have been clearer. Cree, although reluctant to let him out of her sight, couldn’t disobey his order, as indirect as it might be. With a deep sigh, she slunk out of the oak copse and back toward the foreboding forest beyond. _This is it,_ she thought. _The beginning of the end._

Overhead, the moon rose, full and bright as a silver sun hanging like a hole cut in the sky. Cree stepped out of the light and into the welcoming shadows of tall pines and broad-leafed maples. Turning, she watched seven silhouettes standing on a gentle rise. The warrior, the monk, the thief, the mage, the half-orc and the cheerful blue tiefling. And at their center, his raucous laughter audible across the open space, Lucien Damakos, like a ghost bathed in silver moonlight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL LEFT SO MANY NICE COMMENTS FOR ME ON THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER AND I'M DEADASS GONNA CRY I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH AAAHHHHHH 😭❤️❤️❤️😭
> 
> On a logistical note, this is the last chapter of Part 3, which means there's only one more part left! Although Part 4 is super long compared to the other three, because it's where Shit Goes Down For Real. Again, thank you so much for all the feedback and encouragement and thoughts on the story!! Love y'all! 💖


	25. Part IIII Chapter XXV: Diverging Destinies

**PART FOUR: THE HAND OF JUSTICE**

**___________**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

**DIVERGING DESTINIES**

_Two months later in Xhorhas…_

“What the fuck happened here?” Beau pressed her arm to her face, shielding her nose and mouth from the rancid blood=smell permeating the air. Yasha stood a few paces away, leaning heavily on her greatsword, head bowed, shoulders hunched. Beau frowned. She wasn’t sure if getting closer would be helpful or not, so she stayed where she was.

“I don’t know these people,” Yasha said. Beau barely caught her words. She took a step forward, and her boots sank into the thick brownish sludge that stretched on around them as far as she could see. Trees like bony hands raised crooked fingers toward ashy skies; Yasha had chained her prisoner to one, gagging her with a scrap of dirty cloth. With every passing day, the encroaching darkness grew thicker, as did the smell of rotting corpses and festering swamps hanging heavy in the muggy air. “I didn’t know them, but I _did_ , you know?”

If it weren’t for her darkvision goggles, Beau wouldn’t be able to see the bodies strewn across the swamp like discarded trash. Hundreds of them, some wearing the sigil of the Empire, others the iconic armor of the Kryn dynasty. The uncaring swamp claimed them all, warriors with slit throats and spears protruding from their stomachs and chests, decaying under the fading sun.

Beau stepped onto the battlefield. The hungry mud sucked at her boots. She reached Yasha and adjusted her goggles, blinking against the hazy darkness creeping across the land. 

Yasha knelt by the body of a young woman. The dead warrior’s light hair spread like a halo around her head. Her eyes were open, sightless, beginning to fade to the pale blue of the dead. Her face was slashed down the middle. Her mouth was full of congealed blood. Yasha reached out and brushed her fingers over the woman’s eyes, closing them. “She looks like a girl I knew.” Yasha’s voice was strong, but Beau noticed her shoulders shaking. “How old do you think she was?”

“Seventeen,” Beau said. “Maybe eighteen.” She clenched her fists. The young woman’s armor was cloven into pieces. The blood pouring like lava from the gaping wound in her chest stained the sigil on her chest; in the dimness, Beau couldn’t make out the design. Empire or Kryn, it didn’t matter. Death didn’t discriminate. 

“It’s pointless,” Yasha whispered. “All of this violence for nothing. The Kryn, the Empire, they’re being set up against each other.”

Beau frowned. “By whoever’s creating the darkness?”

“I think so.”

“If that’s true, we’ve gotta get proof. We can take it to the Empire and tell them to get their heads out of their fuckin’ asses.” Beau rubbed her arm as a mosquito landed, crushing the bug under her palm and flicking it into the mud. 

“It’s not that simple, Beau.”

“It _is_ that simple.” Beau ground her heel into the mud and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s gonna be what, a couple more weeks before this fuckin’ darkness reaches Wildemount? A month before it gets to Zadash and Rexxentrum? We don’t even know what it is, or what’s causing it. It’s following the Xhorhasian army, right?” Yasha nodded. “Okay, then we’ve gotta find the leader of the Kryn and talk to her. Maybe she knows more than we do, maybe not. But the only way to find out is to find her.”

“We could go to the city.”

Beau raised her eyebrows. “You mean the ruins where unknown, possibly evil forces are actively performing some sort of cursed ritual that’s covering the entire continent in magical darkness?”

Yasha shrugged. “It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think.” Beau felt a brief wave of relief that Molly wasn’t there, as he’d jump on that accidental self-burn in an instant. “Running right into the hands of the bad guys is the stupidest shit we could do.”

Yasha gave her a long, hard look. For a moment Beau thought she would walk away, but she stayed, leaning on her sword, expression unreadable. “Before we do any of this, I’m returning to my tribe.” Her gaze flickered to her prisoner—Kendra? Krayra? Keyring? Beau didn’t care enough to remember—and she sighed. “I’m surprised you’re still here, Beau.”

“Yeah.” Beau clenched and unclenched her fists like a wildcat showing its claws. “I’m surprised, too. Y’know, if you just told me why the fuck this is so important to you, maybe I’d be more willing to set aside all this Armageddon bullshit for a while. But it’s been _two months_ and you’ve said jack shit about it. I get having secrets and shit, but how the fuck am I supposed to help you out with this if I don’t even know what _‘this’_ is? Huh?”

Yasha bowed her head. Her arms tensed as she drove her greatsword deeper into the bloodstained peat and mud. “I promise I’ll tell you. It’s just… I don’t want to say it in front of her, you know?” 

“The prisoner?”

“Keyra.”

“Yeah, whatever. I couldn’t give two fucks about her. Not unless you wanna tell me why you risked all our lives back in Rexxentrum to break her out just so you can drag her back to the tribe that kicked you out.”

Yasha shook her head. Her eyes narrowed, full of fury and fire. “They didn’t kick me out. I left.”

Beau raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Okay. Why?”

“Because.” Yasha took a shuddering breath. “They did something terrible to me. And… to the woman I love.”

Beau’s blood ran cold. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a dying fish. Her heart beat faster, disappointment rising like a summer tide. “I… _what?_ Holy fuck, Yasha, how have you not talked about her before?”

“It didn’t come up.”

Beau gave her an incredulous look. “So what, this Keyra knows where she is? Your girlfriend, or wife, or—?”

“Wife,” Yasha whispered.

“Wife.” Beau’s chest ached. She pushed aside the numbness spreading from her sinking heart. “Yeah, okay. Cool. Your wife.” She paused for a moment, struggling to keep her voice steady. “So Keyra knows how to find her, or something? Or is she still back with your tribe?”

Yasha looked away. Her white-tipped hair covered her face; for a moment, Beau smelled lightning as Yasha’s giant black wings flickered into existence. Yasha took another deep breath. “They killed her. Zuala, my wife. They… there are particular ways that my tribe deals with marriage. It’s very strictly regulated, and we… we were not allowed to be what we were to each other.”

“Fuck,” said Beau, because what else was she supposed to say to that? “So what, you want to get revenge on the fuckers who did it, right?”

Yasha lifted her head. Her hair fell back from her face, the white tips momentarily growing as black as her spectral wings. In the distance, lightning sliced open the sky. It lasted half a second before the darkness swallowed it whole. “I want justice,” she snarled. Her hand clenched around the hilt of her sword, veins standing out under pale skin.

“Okay. Alright.” Beau cracked her knuckles and rolled her neck. She clapped a hand on Yasha’s shoulder, and Yasha turned. Looking her directly in the eye, Beau gripped her shoulder firmly. Sadness and a strange sort of grief swelled around her, but Beau pushed it down. She lifted her head, injecting determination and resolve into her expression and voice. “Let’s go get you some fuckin’ justice,” she said, and turned away, back toward the bloody bodies rotting under stormy skies.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

_Two months later at the Solstryce Academy…_

“Wait, Fjord, you’re going to miss that whole target if you don’t aim to the left more.” Jester held her hands out with the thumbs and forefingers forming a rectangle. She held it up to her right eye, closing the left. “See, if you do this and aim a _liiiittle_ to the left…”

Fjord fired off an Eldrich Blast. It slammed into the center of the target, lime-green light exploding outward from a shapeless ball of darkness. The target shattered into a hundred shards of paper and wood.

Jester clapped, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “That was really cool, Fjord. I mean, I know you’ve totally mastered that one already, but still, it looks awesome and the professors and other students and stuff will definitely be suuuuper impressed.”

“Y’know,” Fjord grumbled, absently wiping his palm on his pants as if the ray of energy may have left residue, “I get this feelin’ sometimes, when you lay on the praise that thick, that you’re not bein’ entirely honest.”

Jester frowned, narrowing her eyes. “Are you saying you don’t trust my compliments, Fjord?”

Fjord shrugged one shoulder. Before she could fire off another retort, she caught the slight upward tilt of his mouth, and grinned. “Stop teasing me, Oskar; I’m trying to be nice to you right now.”

Fjord blushed, clearing his throat and drawing a hand over his face. No matter how many times she did it, calling him ‘Oskar’ always had the same effect.

She poked him in the side, and he startled. “Let’s go back to the food hall place and eat something. I’m super hungry from all the training and studying spells and stuff.”

Fjord sighed. “Ikithon and the rest of those fuckin’ Cerberus Assembly assholes will be there.”

“Yes, which is exactly why we should go when everyone else is eating. We’re _spying_ on them, remember?”

“It’s been almost two months and we haven’t got shit on any of them.”

“So we should keep trying! I’ve heard of assassins spending _years_ infiltrating a gang or royal family or whatever.”

“You mean in your books?”

“They are tales of epic love and glory,” Jester said, crossing her arms and jutting her chin defiantly. “And a lot of them are historical novels, so at least some parts actually happened.”

Fjord sighed. “I’m gettin’ tired of this. Every time I see any of the mages, I get this bad feelin’ like one of ‘em knows.”

Jester put a hand on his forearm and leaned in like she was telling him a secret. “We’re totally awesome secret super spies, Fjord. Nobody is ever going to catch us, because we’re good students, and we do everything they tell us to do, and we’re polite and work hard and technically never do anything we’re not supposed to do, technically.”

Another sigh. “I s’ppose you’re right. Thought I’d get used to all the secrets and lies, but somehow it keeps gettin’ harder instead of easier.”

Jester patted his arm. “It’s okay, everybody gets nervous. Even super spies.” 

Turning, she made her way toward the door at the end of the practice room. She smiled, feeling lighter than she had before their training session, and wrenched open the door. She held it for Fjord as he reluctantly followed. “Now let’s go eat some food,” she said. “Even you can’t find anything wrong with the cooking here.”

“Y’know,” Fjord said as she slammed the door behind them, “you’re right about that.”

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

_Two months later in Talonstadt…_

Talonstadt was a small town full of small-minded people. As Caleb followed Nott, Cree, and Molly into the only tavern in town, Caleb didn’t miss the way the other patrons’ narrowed eyes flickered between Nott and Molly, occasionally turning on Cree. 

Caleb knew Molly well enough to catch the strain in his smile. Molly sauntered up to the counter and dropped a handful of gold—one per person, far too much for the state of the place—and flashed his bright smile at the barkeep. “Two rooms. Nicest ones you have, if possible.” 

The barkeep was a tall, burly man with a handsome face and calloused hands. He didn’t return Molly’s smile. Instead, he leaned in, bracing his hands palms-down on the bar, and snarled, “We don’t serve your kind here.” 

Caleb reached for Nott’s hand. She pressed close to him and he reached down to adjust the wrappings on her ears, tugging her hood down to cover her face.

Cree nudged Molly out of the way and took his place at the bar. “Listen.” She smiled at the barkeep. “Look at how much gold is on the table.” She scooted the pieces toward him one-by-one, claws unsheathed and ears half-back. “We’re here for one night only, and then we’ll move on.”

“Looking at the state of this place,” said Molly, with an airy gesture around the tavern, “you can’t afford to turn away paying customers, race regardless.”

Caleb held his breath as the barkeep fixed Molly with a cold glare. “Get out.” He slammed one fist down on the bar. Most everyone in the tavern pretended not to be watching, but Caleb saw some of them sneaking glances, others openly staring. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Molly was suddenly up in the man’s face, leaning across the bar with his fangs bared. His hand gripped the hilt of one scimitar. “Where I come from, it’s rude to threaten someone who’s paying you.”

Before Caleb could step in and vouch for his non-human companions before the situation further escalated, Cree grabbed Molly’s shoulder and tugged hard on the hood of his coat. “Lucien,” she hissed, “it’s not worth it.”

The barkeep sneered in Molly’s face. “Listen to the pretty little kitty and walk away, demon.”

“Devil!” Nott shrieked, and suddenly there was a crossbow bolt sticking out of the barkeep’s shoulder.

Before anyone could do anything, Tyffial, the half-elven rogue Rakasha had sent to guard and guide them, apparated behind the bar, pressing the tip of a dagger to the barkeep’s neck. She had her hood down, and was covered head to toe in black leather, wrapped in a cloak of shifting shadow. In her soft, pleasant voice, she said, “No one move. Go back to your conversations, please.” She pulled out a hefty sack of gold and dropped it on the bar. Pushing the barkeep to his knees, she held him down with one hand; with the other, she used her knife to slit open the purse. Gold coins spilled onto the bar, cascading onto the stained wooden floor. “Good people of Talonstadt,” she said, “the coin is yours. Come and get it.” 

Without a sound, she vaulted over the bar in a blur of black robes and leather, pulling Molly and Cree toward the door. “Come _on,_ ” she whisper-hissed, and together, they shoved open the door and escaped into the streets as the tavern-goers scrambled to their feet and dove for the scattered gold.

Tyffial and Cree immediately vanished into the growing night. Nott seized Caleb’s hand and tugged him away from the open road. “Caleb, we should go, now!”

Caleb blinked. He was the only one without darkvision, which usually seemed to be the case, to his frustration and chagrin. Despite the faint moonlight, the sudden switch from indoor to outdoor lightning left him reeling. “Nott,” he whispered. Behind them, the tavern door flew open. Loud, vicious voices rose in a battle-cry: the townspeople were on the hunt, riled up and thirsty for blood. “Nott, where did Molly go?”

Nott pulled Caleb behind the nearest building. He stumbled after her, and they crouched together as the townsfolk spread out, spots of fire bursting into being as torches were lit and lanterns hung from porches. 

“Nott.” Caleb clenched his jaw. Fear roared to life, hot and painful as boiling water in his veins. “Did you see where Molly went?”

Nott’s breathing was ragged, harsh. “No, I… I didn’t. He’ll be fine, Caleb, he can take care of himself.”

“If they find him—”

“I know. I _know_. If they find me, it’ll be the same.” The fear in Nott’s voice, barely veiled, seeped out like venom drawn from a snakebite. “We have to take care of ourselves. There’s no point getting caught and killed for Molly’s sake. That won’t help him.”

Rationally, Caleb knew she was right. Irrationally, he wanted to run out into the streets, to burn these people to ashes. Wincing, he pushed away the violence growing inside him and nodded.

“I shot that man,” said Nott, “and I don’t regret doing it, but if we stay here any longer, I will.”

Caleb took a deep breath. He squeezed her hand. “ _Ja,_ okay. Let’s go.”

° ° °

They met back up with Cree a few minutes later, just outside the town on the edge of a thick-growing wood. Cree bounded up to them, panting, and gripped Caleb’s shoulders in both hands. “Lucien and Tyffial…?” she hissed, looking around frantically. 

Caleb shrugged. “I… we did not see where they went.”

Cree’s eyes widened. “Oh shit! We have to go back.” Her hands fell from Caleb’s shoulders as she whirled around, back toward the distant light of torches bobbing down dirt streets. 

“No.” Tyffial emerged from the woods behind them. Molly was with her; Caleb caught the glint of blood-red eyes in faint moonlight. “We’re okay. Lucien just had a… lapse in concentration. He’s fine now.”

Caleb tensed. “I think that is for Mollymauk to say.”

Molly’s hand fell on Caleb’s shoulder. Half-adjusted to the darkness, Caleb made out the faintest hint of a smile. “Don’t worry, Mister Caleb. I’m perfectly fine.”

Caleb frowned. “You are shaking, Mister Mollymauk.”

Molly retracted his hand as if Caleb had burned him. “I… well. That hasn’t happened in a while, I’ll admit.” A half-hearted shrug. “People are assholes. Not much we can do about it.”

Before Caleb could think of a response, Tyffial pulled Molly aside. “I scouted the woods while you were at the inn,” she said. “There’s fresh venison stashed by a stream nearby. We can set up camp for the night. We’ll have to go without drinks, but maybe it’s better to take a break from that anyway.” 

In that instant, Caleb decided he hated her honeyed words, her poisoned-silver tongue, the way she looked at Molly like he was a priceless artifact rather than a living person. 

Tyffial rested her chin on Molly’s shoulder, one arm around his waist, and smiled under her hood. “Come on. It’s been a long day. You should rest.”

Nott narrowed her eyes. Caleb saw his own irritation and suspicion reflected on her face. “We all do,” she said.

“Uh, yes. Lead on.” Molly’s upbeat tone might fool the others, but Caleb saw straight through it. Something had happened. Whether it had happened now or in the past, Caleb didn’t know. But he _knew_ that tone. And he knew what it meant.

“C’mon, Caleb.” Nott’s voice was quiet, somber. “We really could use a solid rest.”

Caleb took a deep, shuddering breath. “ _Ja_ , okay.”

° ° °

They set up camp by the stream. Cree gathered wood for a fire while Tyffial dug up the cache of meat from the deer she’d slaughtered. Molly disappeared into the woods for a few minutes and returned breathing hard, blood on his knuckles and bruises spreading down his fingers. “I’m fine,” he said sharply, before anyone could ask. “Are we eating?”

After the last of the venison was gone, Cree unrolled the sleeping mats and poured water on the fire. “It should be a warm night. There’s no point risking attracting predators.” For a moment, an image of the bartender’s cruel, handsome face flashed through his mind. “Animals, or otherwise.”

“I’ll take watch,” Caleb said, before Molly could. Molly shot him a sideways look, frowning. “Mollymauk, you are welcome to join me. I cannot see in the dark as well as the rest of you.”

“I… fine.” Molly gave Caleb a narrow-eyed, searching look. “I’ll find somewhere with a decent vantage point, if that’s even a thing in forests. Come find me when you’re ready.” With a sweeping glance around the clearing, he turned and disappeared into the dusk, his vibrant coat following in a whirl of spinning colors.

Nott touched Caleb’s wrist—a hesitant, silent question. He smiled down at her in response, and she nodded, smiling back. “I’ll take the watch after you,” she said. “Wake me up when you’re finished.” She tugged on his scarf, pulling him down and kissing his cheek.

Caleb smiled and laid a hand on her hooded head. “Goodnight, Nott.”

“Goodnight, Caleb.”

Tyffial disappeared into the woods as soon as the fire was out. Caleb had followed her one night, curious and suspicious of her constant absences, and found her sleeping in a tree high above the ground. It was an elvish thing, Cree explained when he asked. Wood elves felt safer in the trees.

Caleb retrieved one of the least interesting books in his satchel, just in case the night’s watch proved uneventful. His hand brushed the worn leather edge of the Book of the Damned, and for a moment, he held his breath as his fingers tingled and his blood ran cold. He stood up, covered the tome with his coat, and turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summer is over and I'm job-searching like crazy because gods know that it's SUUUPER easy to get a job with a Creative Writing degree!!! (*heavy, heavy sarcasm*) Which is why it took me a hot second to edit this chapter and get it up. (<\--- phrasing!) 
> 
> Anyway, here's the first part of Part IIII, aka the final third of the book, aka the beginning of the absolute shitstorm that doesn't end until the story does!! (Fingers crossed that I still have time for writing/editing once I'm a full-on workin' girl, though, because BIG YIKES. Being an Adult is scary 0w0)
> 
> Oh, and also, if anyone is interested, I just started doing writing commissions (mostly backstory/short story stuff for people's OCs and D&D characters!) so if you wanna contact me about that, I'd be thrilled to talk more about it!! My Tumblr is Artemis-Pendragon, and my Instagram is Artemis.Pendragon :D
> 
> As always, thank you so so SO MUCH to everyone for your thoughtful comments, kudos, and messages <3 I appreciate it more than I can say! :,D


	26. Part IIII Chapter XXVI: Born of Fire, Bathed in Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so quick warning for this chapter: Ya girl was both sleep deprived and in a Dark Mindset when I wrote this chapter, and there's a lot of violence and a brief allusion to attempted sexual assault, as well as copious amounts of fantasy racism. So yeah, if that's the kind of stuff that won't be good for you to read, just skip over this chapter!! Stay safe you lovely people <3

****

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

****

**BORN OF FIRE, BATHED IN BLOOD**

Caleb found Molly sitting on a moss-covered stone, staring up through a gap in the foliage. “So. What do you want to know?” Molly wouldn’t look at him. He had his legs crossed, hood up, hands folded in his lap.

Caleb sat on a log a few feet from Molly’s rock. He wrapped his arms around himself. Despite the warm night air, he felt a sudden chill. “If you don’t want to talk, I will not make you. But I thought you might like company.”

Molly laughed without humor. “You’re very perceptive.”

“I know you well,” said Caleb. As soon as the words were out, he looked away, his face growing hot. He picked at a hole in his scarf. His chest was tight, heart pounding. He had the sudden urge to get up and walk away.

He felt Molly’s gaze on him, hot and piercing. “You do, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. There was a long beat of silence. Molly sighed, a soul-deep, weary sound. “I was four months old,” he said. “I’d just started talking.”

Caleb frowned at the ground. “You don’t have to tell me, Mollymauk. That’s not why I’m here.”

“I want to. I want to tell you.”

“Then I will listen.”

Another long silence. Caleb risked a glance. Molly was staring at the sky again, a bright silhouette against the darkened forest. “I’d known Yasha for a week or two. Couldn’t’ve been more than that.” He swallowed. Caleb watched the pulse beat in his throat, rapid and strong. “We—the carnival—had stopped in this tiny town. More of a camp than a town, but they had a tavern and an inn, and we were fucking exhausted after a week on the road. So we pulled into this town, and Yasha, Bo, and Gustav went off to deal with the horses and carts. Me, Orna, the twins, Tora, and Kylre went ahead to get rooms at the inn. I was nervous. I think, even then, I felt something bad was gonna happen. I just… my intuition was all I had back then. I couldn’t tell you the name of the town, or the price of the drinks, but I could tell you it was a bad place.” Molly exhaled, closing his eyes.

“You can stop.” Caleb looked back at the ground. He picked at his scarf again, forcing down the painful memories crowding his mind. Fire and smoke filled his lungs, hot and choking. He clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists. “If it’s too much, you can stop.”

“I know. But listen, this kind of shit, you’ve gotta get it out there. You can’t heal a wound until you’ve taken off the bandages.”

“That is… true.” Caleb ran his fingers over the wrappings on his arms. His mouth was bone dry. 

Molly continued. “I offered them money. Maybe three times what the rooms should cost, but back then I wasn’t very good at bartering.” There was a sardonic slant to his words. “This was before I got good at being bad.”

“You aren’t bad, Mollymauk. ‘Morally ambiguous’ is the term I would use.”

Molly laughed, throwing his head back, shoulders shaking. “Alright. Morally ambiguous, then.” He tugged at his hood, a nervous tick Caleb recognized like a reflection in the mirror. “What matters is, I paid them good money, and they turned me away. _The day I cater to devils is the day I die_. That’s what the barkeep said. I remember the look she gave me, and I… it was the first time I’d ever seen that much hate aimed at me. I was still so new, so naïve, and I… I offered to leave the money, to pay for the others’ rooms, but she sneered in my face. _We don’t want your fucking money, demon,_ she said. And she drew a knife.”

Caleb ran his fingers over the frayed ends of his scarf. He hands shook. He tasted smoke again. “Did she hurt you?”

“Oh no, not physically. But I got the message and left the tavern. The others were already in their rooms, but I didn’t know that. They didn’t see it happen.” Molly inhaled sharply. “I remember panicking. Back then—and, if I’m being honest, even now—I hated being alone. I’ve never gone more than a day on my own, not in my entire life. Not as far as I can remember.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been terrible for you.”

Molly laughed again, a bare, raw sound. “Oh, that’s not even close to the worst part. Because after that, after I got scared and went to find Yasha, five men from the bar cornered me in an alleyway.”

Caleb closed his eyes. For a moment, Molly’s voice faded as foreign memories clouded his mind.

_“Hey, you demon fuck!”_

_Caleb turns—no,_ Molly _turns—and there are five men standing on the dirt road, sneering and laughing and elbowing each other in the ribs. It’s dark. They’re still too far away to make out their faces, but he recognizes the voices from the bar._

_“Good evening, gentlemen.” Molly smiles. His hands shake. His heart beats so hard he’s afraid it’ll burst through his ribs. “Would you mind pointing me in the direction of the stables?”_

_The men laugh. One of them, a tall, handsome man with bright green eyes and slicked-back hair, laughs the loudest. “Yeah. It’s right over there, just past the gardens.” He points to a dark passage between two wooden buildings. “Now get the fuck outta here. We don’t want your kind lingering in our town.”_

_Molly exhales. The relief is almost painful. “Thanks, thank you. You’ll never see me again, I promise.” He turns and all but runs toward the dark passage._

_He’s just past the mouth of the alley when he realizes it’s a dead end. He turns around, ready to run for his life, but they’ve closed in, stalking him like wolves cornering a deer. Molly has no choice but to back up as they approach. His back hits hard stone and he stops. Walls on three sides—two wood, one stone—and five huge, brawny men blocking his only escape. Molly holds up his hands as the leader stops a few paces away. “I’ve got money, if that’s what you want.” He pats his empty satchel. Panic flares, vicious and hot. “Well, not_ on _me, but my friends will pay you.”_

_The men laugh. “We don’t want your fuckin’ money.”_

_Molly braces himself against the wall. His legs are weak. His mouth is desert dry. “Whatever you want, take it.”_

_The leader sneers. “I will,” he says. “But first I’m gonna see what you’re made of.” He cracks his neck and his knuckles. He raises his fist, and Molly ducks. There’s a horrible cracking sound as the man’s fingers collide with rough-hewn bricks. “Fuck!” The man roars, cradling one hand against his stomach, and grabs Molly’s horn in the other. He slams Molly’s head against the stone. Pain like nothing Molly’s ever felt explodes behind his eyes. His headaches were never this bad, he thinks dazedly as his vision blurs and bile rises in his throat. Nothing was ever this bad, not since he crawled out of the ground._

_The leader pulls Molly’s head back until he can’t breathe. He leans in and laughs in Molly’s face. “Aww, look, he’s scared.” His companions laugh along with him. “You should be scared, demon bitch.” He slams his knee into Molly’s stomach; when Molly bends, gasping, he shoves him against the wall and elbows him hard in the ribs. Molly screams. His attacker seizes him by the throat, holding him against the stone, and snarls. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll cut out your forked tongue.”_

Caleb snapped back to the present, gasping and shaking. Molly’s pain lingered in his ribs, his stomach, his head. He felt dazed. He swallowed the sickness rising in his throat, ducking his head and closing his eyes.

Molly was still talking. “One guy, this big guy, he pinned me to the wall and beat the shit outta me while the others watched. Worst pain I’d felt, up until that point. I had no idea what to do. I tried to fight back, but…” Molly sighed. “I had four months of memories and no idea how any of it worked. I was getting good with my swords—mostly juggling and showy stuff, nothing useful—but there was no way in Nine Hells I could make it back to the stables anyway. I was trapped. Those fuckers were gonna beat me to death, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Caleb pressed his forehead to his arm. His eyes burned. He was angry, so fucking angry. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to find these men, if they were still alive, and burn them to ash.

“So this big guy was going at it when I managed to get under him and elbow him in the ribs. He let go of me and I made a break for it.” Molly made a sound that was half laugh, half snarl. “That was a bad fucking idea, because one of those guys knew his way around a knife, and he threw one right into my back. Took my legs out. I fell down, and I couldn’t move from the waist down, totally numb, and I remember thinking, _Yasha’s gonna find my body, and she’ll blame herself. She’ll blame herself for not being there._ And at that point I didn’t know her that well, but it hurt to think about her hurting, so I kept fighting.” His tone was dark, bitter. “I kept fucking fighting.”

Caleb swallowed. He didn’t think he could respond, even if he found the words to do so.

“One of the guys, the one who’d thrown the knife, came over and pulled me up by the horns. I remember what he said, clear as fuckin’ day: _Somehow_ , he said, _I didn’t think devils would bleed red._ And there was something there that brought it back, that weird dark _thing_ in my blood; next thing I knew that man was bleeding from the eyes and screaming at the top of his lungs.” Another humorless smile. “That was the first time I did that. It was an instinct. No idea how I’d done it, or what it meant that I had. But it saved my life.” Molly laughed, bitter and sharp. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Caleb pressed both hands to his eyes. He felt it, the hazy memories pressing at the barriers he’d built up in his head. But no matter how hard he fought it, how much he tried to push them away, Molly’s memories sank sharp fangs into his brain, holding on with razor-sharp claws. He took a deep breath, and the world fell away. He was back in another body, another time. The scene materialized around him. He tried to blink it away, but it lingered, stained red, and suddenly…

_“Move.” The tall, handsome man’s voice is low. Dangerous. “I’m gonna make this creature wish he’d never been born.”_

_Molly rolls onto his side as the man kicks out at him. He just manages to avoid the blow, curling into himself to protect his chest and stomach. Panting, he glares up at his attackers. “Technically,” he says, “I never was born.” He bares his fangs in the mockery of a smile._

_“Get out of my way.” The man who threw the knife grabs Molly by the front of his torn, bloodstained shirt and drags him upright. The man’s face is covered in blood. It trickles from his nose and clings to his lips and lashes as he slams Molly against the alley wall, wooden boards groaning under their combined weight. “You’re dead, demon. You’re so fucking dead.”_

_“You fucking started it,” Molly snarls. He digs down deep and finds a spark of courage. “I’m not a bloody monster. But if I were, I’d be in good company.”_

_The man spits in his face. He slams Molly’s head against the wall. “On your knees.” He lets go of Molly’s horns, and Molly falls to the ground, legs and tail numb and useless. The man starts undoing his belt._

_Molly raises his hands, baring his fangs. “I’ll do it again,” he snarls. An empty threat. “I’ll make you bleed out through your eyes right here in this filthy alley, where not even the crows will find your corpse.”_

_The man kicks him in the face. Blood gushes over Molly’s lips, down his chin, dripping onto his filthy, ruined shirt. Gustav gave him this shirt when he first came to the carnival, and Molly has taken such good care of it, because nice clothes are expensive, and people like him a lot more when he looks like he can afford nice things._

_The man fumbles with his belt buckle. He swears loudly. Molly snarls, defiant and furious with fear._

_Overhead, a flash of lightning. Thunder rolls, loud enough to shatter windows, and the men in the alley pause._

_“If you believe in the gods,” says a soft, familiar voice, “you have two seconds to pray.”_

_The men scream. Louder than Molly screamed, and he can’t help but feel a little smug. He slides down the wall and lies there, beaten and bloody and so, so tired, and holds on to the last shred of consciousness._

“Yasha found me.” 

Caleb broke free of the vision. _Memory_ , he corrected himself, and winced. “How?” His voice shook. He looked up. Molly was still watching the stars. The hood hid his face, shadows shielding his usually open features. “How did she find you?”

Molly shrugged. “No idea. She’s Yasha. She does stuff like that.” He sighed, but his voice held a touch of amusement as he added, “Maybe she has some seventh sense that tells her when I’m in trouble. I don’t know, but she’s always there when I need her. It’s a remarkable talent.”

“That is… lucky. For you, and for her.”

Another sigh. “I wish she hadn’t had to see that. It was messy. There was so much blood, all over my clothes, my face. All over everything.”

“Yasha doesn’t mind blood.”

“You know it’s not about that.”

Caleb swallowed the lump growing like a cancer in his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

There was a long silence. Then Molly said, “I remember she was crying. She thought I was dead, so she was holding me and crying. I’ve never seen her that upset. She kept saying, _‘Not again, I can’t do this again.’_ There were times, afterward, when I wanted to ask what that meant. But Yasha and I, we have this silent sort of pact. She didn’t ask about my past, and I didn’t ask about hers. We were there for each other, but it was unconditional.”

Caleb thought about Nott. He almost smiled. “It is nice,” he said, “to have someone like that.”

Molly was silent for a long moment. “They saved me. All those people and their kindness saved me, and I’ll be grateful for it until the day I die. For good, that is,” he added, and Caleb heard the brief humor in his words. But then he sighed, shaking his head. “Yasha took me back to Gustav and the others, but none of them were healers, and there was nothing they could do. So we went west, back into the heart of the Empire, looking for someone willing to help us.” His voice darkened. “Most turned us away. _Bury him_ , they said. _He won’t make it._ But Yasha refused. Gustav refused. And they kept searching for three bloody days until they found a cleric of Bahamut willing to help—for a price, of course. Everyone chipped in, and by the end we were all broke, but they refused to make me pay it back. _You’re part of this family now_ , Gustav told me. _We take care of our own_.”

Caleb stared out into the darkness. His hands burned, flames at his fingertips. His throat was so tight he was afraid to speak. “We would do the same for you, Mollymauk,” he managed eventually. “I hope you know that.

“Oh, I do.” Molly’s voice was back to its usual confident tone. Caleb looked at him. He made an airy gesture as if brushing away a fly. “It’s in the past. I’ve learned to be careful since then, to get out before a situation goes bad.”

“It went bad tonight.”

Molly shrugged. “No one’s perfect.” Under his hood, Caleb could tell he was smiling. “Nott surprised me. But if anyone here understands what it’s like to be hated for what you look like rather than who you are, it would be her.”

“I wonder,” Caleb said, “if she has ever experienced something like that. I know she has been… _mistreated,_ because of her race. But to what extent, I don’t know.”

Molly didn’t reply. He tilted his head back, throat exposed, skin reflecting silver moonlight. He closed his eyes and exhaled. “My story has a happy ending,” he said. “That’s what I’ve decided.”

Caleb saw him then. Really saw him. No flashy gems, gaudy coat, or clever words. Just Mollymauk Tealeaf, bathed in moonlight, wearing his hope like a crown. Molly opened his eyes and looked at Caleb. He smiled. “And you, Mister Caleb? How does your story end?”

“I…” Caleb looked away. “I don’t know.” Phantom flames crawled over his skin, leaving ragged holes in his coat, his gloves, the wrappings on his arms. Everything burned away and he couldn’t hide, couldn’t escape the ashes falling like a gentle summer rain, collecting in his hair and upturned palms. “There is too much I don’t know. I can’t tell the future, Mollymauk.”

Molly slid off the rock. He stretched luxuriously, arching his back, then closed the distance between them. He put both hands on Caleb’s shoulders. Caleb couldn’t look right at him, staring down and to the left at the huge, ragged scar standing out clear and shiny on Molly’s chest, just over his heart. 

“Well,” said Molly, “however it goes, I’m happy to be a part of your story, Caleb.” He tilted his chin up and kissed Caleb’s forehead, hands rising to cup Caleb’s neck. Caleb blinked rapidly. Molly grinned, bright and beautiful. He patted Caleb’s cheek. “I’ll wake Nott. Get some sleep. I know you need it.”

Caleb stood frozen for a long moment, watching Molly walk away. He reached up and touched the place where Molly’s lips had brushed his skin. His fingers burned. He inhaled, pressed his hand to his mouth, and exhaled against his palm. He closed his eyes, memorizing the moment. And then he crossed the camp and settled himself on his sleeping mat. He was half asleep by the time he realized he’d left his spellbook back by the log.

_Nott will find it,_ he told himself. He closed his eyes, and in the dark he saw purple skin bruised and bloody, splintered claws and bleeding eyes. _I have to tell him. I have to tell him about the ritual, about the things I’ve seen._

Beside him, he felt a presence, hotter than any fire, alluring as a siren’s call. He reached out and touched the Book’s rough leather exterior. Power seeped into his fingers. His blood ran cold. He pulled away, turning over, and tried desperately to think about nothing until the sun rose, blood-red and sheathed in mist, in the summer sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that exists. Too much caffeine + not enough sleep + physics homework + impending Senior Year Finals and graduation = me writing dark shit (at least darker than what I usually write). @ My Favorite Characters: I'M SO SORRY Y'ALL BUT I GOTTA TAKE OUT MY EMOTIONAL ISSUES ON SOMEONE!!
> 
> Also: I know Yasha didn't join the circus that early on but it worked better narrative-wise, so here we are. RIP canon continuity 😞
> 
> ALSO AS ALWAYS I JUST WANNA SAY I LOVE Y'ALL THANKS FOR STICKING WITH ME THIS LONG!!! <3 <3 <3 Your support makes me so happy, and I hope you enjoyed (if that's the right word?) this chapter. Love you!! <3


	27. Part IIII: Chapter XXVII: The Calm Before the Storm

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

****

**THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM**

“And we were fighting this manticore and one of my friends—I think I’ve told you about her, but she’s a goblin and she’s suuuuper sneaky and nice and I miss her a lot—killed its baby, so then—” Jester was cut off mid-story by voices behind a closed set of oaken doors. She paused, tilting her head and frowning. “You guys can go ahead; I’ll meet you at the dining hall later and I can tell you the rest.”

Lyra, a fellow student who Jester had shared several classes with over the past couple months, fixed her with a curious stare. “You okay, Guinevere?”

Jester nodded. “Oh, yes, I’m totally fine. I just forgot to get something that I left in the training room.” She leaned in close, as if telling Lyra a secret. “It’s kind of embarrassing, because it’s actually this really good porn novel I’m reading. It’s super good, but also there are a lot of kinky sex scenes and stuff, so I should probably go get it and spare one of the older mages from having a heart attack.” She grinned conspiratorially. 

Lyra laughed. “Yeah, some of them have sticks so far up their asses the twigs stick out their mouths when they speak.” She clapped Jester on the shoulder. The rough show of affection reminded Jester of Beau, and her chest tightened. “I’ll see you at the hall.”

“Okay, see you!”

Jester waited until Lyra was out of sight before creeping back to the oaken doors. She crouched in the shadows between two lanterns, holding her breath, and pressed her ear to the wall.

“If you could all stand.” Trent Ikithon’s rich voice crept through the crack under the door, reverberating through the walls. “Good, thank you. I’d like to propose a toast.” A murmur went up from the crowd. Glasses clinked, liquid fizzing and sloshing. “Here’s to our success in defeating the latest incursion from the Ashkeeper peaks, and to the reclaiming of the Ashguard Garrison—may the brave soldiers of the Empire find victory against the horrors of the East.” A long pause, and more murmuring. “You may drink,” Ikithon said, sounding faintly amused. 

Glasses clinked again as people toasted the victory, their voices blurring into one monotonous sound. When the din faded, Ikithon called their attention to himself. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Some of you, I’m afraid, are slipping.”

Jester pressed closer to the wall. The hairs along the back of her neck stood on end. It was as if the walls were suddenly charge with electricity. Power surged through her fingertips as she ran them over the golden wallpaper. She held her breath, fighting the sudden urge to run.

Ikithon’s next words were incomprehensible. Jester flinched as they rose and fell; instinctively, she covered her ears, stumbling away from the wall. She crouched, gasping, hands shaking. She felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Every nerve in her body tingled, muscles seizing up. And yet, despite the fear pounding her heart, the urge to flee faded. It was replaced by a strong compulsion to open the oakwood doors, to follow Ikithon’s voice to its source. Her mind went blank. Her vision blurred. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breath, couldn’t think…

She fell backwards and landed in someone’s arms. “Fjord?” she mumbled, vision fading in and out. Her mouth was dry. She tasted something sharp and fresh, like pine needles crushed between her teeth. She was shivering hard. 

“I’m not Fjord.” A hooded face swam into view. Jester blinked, sitting bolt upright. “It’s not safe for you to stay here,” said the Traveler. “The ritual Ikithon is performing in that room isn’t meant for your ears, but if you keep listening, the effect will be the same.”

Jester covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide. “What’s he doing?” she whispered through her fingers. “Is he casting a spell on them or something? ‘Cause that’s what it sounds like.”

Beneath the Traveler’s hood, she caught the glimmer of hidden eyes. “Everything you need is in Ikithon’s office. Proof that he’s using false memories and mind control on his colleagues, evidence of illegal experimentation on his apprentices, all of it.”

“How do I get it, though? His office is _suuuper_ well-guarded. And it’s also locked, and probably cursed or something, too.”

“It’s all those of things. But the time is coming, Jester, for you to prove your skills not only as a cleric, but as a trickster. I’ll be there, but it’s up to you to pull this off.”

Jester grabbed her holy symbol. Clutching it tight in one hand, she held out the other. The Traveler raised his hand, fingers spread, and pressed his palm to hers. A strange, comforting cold slipped into Jester’s blood, running down her arm and filling her chest. “We can totally do this.” She took a deep breath. “I promise that I will make you really, really proud, okay?”

The Traveler’s face, cloaked in shadow, was unreadable. But the smile in his words was clear as crystal. “I know you will.” 

His form flickered. As he faded back into the darkness creeping between patches of lantern light, his voice whispered through the hallway, filling Jester’s mind. “One of his apprentices carries a key to his office. You know her. Find the key, distract the apprentice, and forge a copy. The rest you can figure out by yourself.”

The Traveler vanished like shadows in midday sunshine. Jester sat alone in the middle of the hallway for a few seconds before shaking herself, standing up, and slipping away toward the dining hall. 

Lyra was waiting for her. Jester flashed her a bright grin, but her heart was still pounding, her mind spinning. 

“Took you long enough.” Lyra knocked their shoulders together as Jester sat down next to her. “Did you find it?”

Jester frowned. For a moment her mind went blank, confusion drowning the last of the fear. And then she remembered. “Oh! Oh, the smut book! Yes, I found it, thanks for asking.” She pulled out her sketch book, flipping it open. She fished out her inks and a pen out of her haversack. “I also remembered that I’m supposed to draw some stuff to send to my mom, since she’s paying for me to attend the Academy and everything.”

Lyra poked at a piece of cold pork on her plate. “It’s weird, but I haven’t seen any of the archmagi today. Think they’re having a meeting or something?”

 _Yes, but I also think that Trent Ikithon is drugging them all and also probably wiping their memories or mind controlling them or something, but you’re his apprentice, so I really don’t think you want to know that,_ Jester thought. She sighed. Dipping her pen in blue ink, she drew a little girl in a silk dress, tiny curling horns wreathed in elegantly styled hair. Beside the girl, she drew a tall figure, hooded and cloaked. _Thanks for being my best friend,_ she wrote. The hand holding the pen tingled where the Traveler had touched it. _I’m going to make you super proud. Pinky promise. Love, Jester._

Lyra pointed at the drawing with the tines of her fork. “Who’s Jester?”

Jester’s mouth went dry. “Oh, um, it’s like, a nickname I had growing up. Because I’m super cute and funny and everything, you know?”

Lyra speared a bite of pork and shoved it in her mouth. “Mmm. Well, I gotta go.” She pushed her chair back with a shriek of wood on tile. As she stood up, something silver flashed on her belt: a key, elegant and sheathed in silver, hanging from a delicate chain. She clapped Jester on the shoulder. “See ya, Guinevere. Or should I say _Jester?_ ” She laughed, turning away.

Watching Lyra walk away from the table, Jester’s heart began to pound again. _The key! I knew it. But she’s always so alert, and powerful, and everything. So how do I even get it?_

A voice in her head, tinged with amusement: _Well that_ is _the question, isn’t it?_

“Traveler?” Jester whisper-hissed. “Is that you?” There was no reply. She turned back to her untouched food and open sketchbook.

The ink vial had tipped over, spreading like a black bloodstain across the white tablecloth. And there, superimposed on her drawing, was a faint handprint in black ink. Underneath her written promise were six words in handwriting as familiar as her own:

_Make me proud? You already have._

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

“Tell me about your childhood.”

Yasha shot Beau a sideways look. “I don’t know, Beau. I don’t know if you want to hear about that. It’s not a very happy story.”

Beau shrugged. “None of us are happy stories. Besides, happy stories are bullshit. No one wants to hear about everything going right.”

Yasha paused, considering. “I guess you’re right.” She sighed. Ahead, the festering swamplands gave way to scrub brush and jagged, rocky hills. Her prisoner, bound and gagged, marched stoically behind her. After nearly two months of travel, the chains had rubbed Keyra’s wrists raw. Yasha knew she should feel some sort of sympathy, but she didn’t. This woman didn’t deserve sympathy. Not from her. Not from anyone. 

Yasha glanced at Beau, then back at the barren hills. “What do you want to know?”

“I dunno. How did you meet her?”

Yasha flinched. “Zuala?”

“Yeah. Did you know her when you were a kid, or did you meet later?”

“I… we grew up together. I knew her for a very long time.”

“Were there other kids in your tribe? I mean, you said you had to kill other kids or something when you were growing up. Y’know, back in that cave that one time when Fjord was telling us why he doesn’t have tusks?”

“Oh. That’s right. I forgot I said that.”

“So?” Beau spread her hands, an inquisitive look on her face. “Why? I mean, if you wanna talk about it. If not, that’s totally cool. I’m not trying to pry.”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” Yasha skirted a patch of bubbling mud, dragging her prisoner with her. “I was the strongest child in the tribe. I was fast, and I didn’t have boundaries. I was willing to do whatever it took to come out on top. So, when other kids challenged me, or when I challenged them, the result was usually the same. I… my skills in battle earned me the nickname ‘orphan maker’, as I got older, it wasn’t just children. I killed men and women of all ages, from everywhere. I fought in many battles. I became well known for my fearlessness and rage in battle. And when I was old enough, the leader of my tribe, Ranu, decided that she wanted me to marry her son.”

Beau made a face. “Ew, what?”

Yasha’s heart twisted. She looked away, through the growing darkness to the farthest horizon. “I didn’t expect it. I wasn’t even born in the tribe. A man—they think he was my father, but no one knows for sure—came to the tribe when I was a baby, sick and half-mad, raving in a language no one recognized. He died, and they thought I’d died, too. They buried us in the swamps, but I pulled myself out, or something did, and they found me lying on the edge of the village, covered in mud, but alive. They took me in. A mother with a new baby took care of me until I was old enough to live with the other orphans. I was four or five when I started training. I always wanted to fight. I fought everyone. By the time I was nine, I was wielding a greatsword. Not well, but I could hold it, and swing it well enough.”

“Holy fuck,” said Beau. “Did you, like, compete against other kids in competitive combat or anything?”

“Not really. It was all practical. The better my tribe’s fighters were, the more power we had. No one attacks a strong village when there’s a weak one down the road.” Yasha felt her prisoner’s eyes on the back of her head. “I never expected to be betrothed to the leader’s son. Usually an outsider—any outsider, even one who grew up in the tribe—would never be considered for such an honor.” She couldn’t keep the disgust out of her voice. “But I didn’t want that honor. I knew what kind of person Ranu was. There were rumors she had poisoned her husband, and I didn’t want anything to do with that. I was happy fighting, and spending time with Zuala, wandering through the swamplands looking for rare bugs and flowers. Zuala loved flowers. We’d find flat rocks in summer and we’d sit in the sun, and I’d weave flowers into her hair. She loved to work with metal. She was good at it. So she made little beads for my hair, and I found interesting flowers to put in hers.” Yasha’s eyes stung. She clenched her fists. The sudden, overwhelming urge to spin around and break Keyra’s nose rose up inside her; she tamped it down with a few deep breaths. “I still do that, you know. I’m always looking for flowers she would like—the blue ones and the purple ones, especially. She said she liked them because they matched my eyes, and she wanted us to match.” Yasha brushed away the wetness gathering on her lashes. “I have so many flowers to give her.”

Beau was silent. Yasha didn’t want to look at her. She wasn’t sure she was ready to. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Yasha.” Beau’s voice was tight. She sounded lost, unsure. Like she wanted to say something comforting, or profound, but couldn’t find the words. “She sounds like a great person. Wish I coulda met her.”

Yasha watched the sun dip and disappear behind the cloud of darkness obscuring the sky. The last light of evening slipped away. “She would’ve liked you, I think.”

There was a long beat of silence. “So what happened? I mean, you married Zuala, right?”

“I did. I… I didn’t know. What they would do, what Ranu would do, when we left the tribe.”

“You left?”

“We wanted to be together, and that couldn’t happen unless we left. So that’s what we did. We settled a few miles away from the main village. We thought it was far enough.” This time, Yasha let the tears fall. The salt burned her skin, leaving hot tracks on her cheeks. “Ranu’s pride was hurt. She’d given me what she thought was a great gift, the chance to someday lead the tribe, regardless of my outsider status. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t see past my disgrace. So she sent her daughter to find me. Keyra was supposed to bring me back, to drag me back in chains if necessary. Ranu sent her because, over all the years I was with the tribe, she was the only one who could ever beat me on the battlefield.” Yasha tightened her grip on the prisoner’s chains. Again, she fought the rage building in her chest, clenching her heart and driving the air from her lungs. Through gritted teeth, she said, “I was out hunting. I’d stopped on the way home to pick some lilies I thought she’d like. Lilies were rare. They didn’t bloom often, and when they did, it was only for a short time. And when I got home…” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and tried again. “When I got home, Zuala was lying there, her throat cut, in the threshold of the house we’d built together. Gone. I held her as her body went cold. Just two minutes earlier, I thought. Two minutes earlier, and I could’ve saved her. But I wasn’t there.”

“Yasha….” Beau sounded wrecked. “It wasn’t—”

“I left her alone. She was never a good fighter like I was, and I left her.”

“So, this bitch.” Beau jerked her head at Yasha’s prisoner. “Is she…?”

Yasha nodded. She glanced at Beau, then at Keyra. Keyra’s eyes were cold, expression blank, detached. But there, buried under the stoic detachment, was a hint of satisfaction. “She killed my wife, and when she came back and found me holding Zuala’s body, she stood over me and she said, _‘I never liked you. The day you marry my brother is the day I die. So get out of here. Leave. Never come back._ ’ And I did. I buried Zuala, and I left.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere, at first. And then I came across this… alter. I don’t know what else to call it. There was a statue, and I heard this voice, and that’s when the Storm Lord found me.” Yasha swallowed. The familiar burn between her shoulders, of half-decayed wings clinging to her like a tattered cloak, pulled her out of distant memories before they consumed her. “I’m not an angel. I never worshipped a god, before Kord. But I have divine blood. And for whatever reason, Kord saw something in me and chose me. Or I chose him, I’m not really sure. I have no idea why I am the way I am. All I know is that, the day I found that alter, I changed. Whatever divine blood I have revealed itself. My hair—” she ran her fingers through the strands, tracing black through grey to white, “—changed. It was white, before. You’ve seen it when I fight; sometimes it turns black. There’s this… necrotic energy, that I’ve carried since Zuala died. And I don’t know if it’s the Storm Lord, or my divine heritage, or something else that gives me my power. But it doesn’t matter. Not really. All that matters now is that these abilities, these skills, will allow me to avenge my wife.”

“Wow.” Beau shook her head; out of the corner of her eye, Yasha caught a glimpse of the pained expression on her face. “That’s fucked up. Like, really fucked up, Yasha.”

“I told you it wasn’t a happy story.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you did.” A pause. “So what, then? Are you taking Keyra back to your tribe, and if that’s your plan, why? Don’t they still wanna kill you, or force you to marry someone else, or something else shitty?”

Yasha’s chest tightened. She shrugged. “Well, I’m hoping to challenge her to one-on-one combat to avenge Zuala. But if that doesn’t work, then I’ll trade Keyra to Ranu for information.”

“Information? About what?”

“The war. The Kryn Dynasty. Whatever’s happening in the Ruined City, what’s causing the darkness, who’s responsible. Anything that could help us.”

“Help us. So what, we’re joining the war effort now?”

Yasha couldn’t keep the bite out of her tone. “This isn’t about personal freedom anymore, Beau. Whatever’s causing this darkness is turning us against each other. That’s what’s happening, I’m sure of it. The Kryn Dynasty thinks the Empire wants to wipe them out. The Empire thinks the Kryn Dynasty wants to invade their lands. They’re fighting each other when they should be fighting together. I don’t know who’s causing the darkness, but I know it’s way worse than skirmishes in the Ashkeeper mountains. And if I can’t avenge my wife, at least I can preserve her memory by fighting for all the things she loved: beauty, and freedom, and the hope that, someday, we might find happiness in this world.”

Beau was quiet for a long moment. As the silence stretched on—too long—Yasha turned, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

“Yasha.” Ranu stood ten paces away. She was flanked on all sides by warriors holding spears, rusted swords, and heavy fortified shields. At her feet was Beau, kneeling, held up by Ranu’s hand in her hair. Blood ran from Beau’s forehead, dripping off her nose and chin. Ranu pulled her head back and it lolled, her lips parted, eyes closed. “Sorry to interrupt your story, but I’ve been looking for you for a long time.” Ranu’s sharp, piercing blue eyes slipped from Yasha’s face to Keyra’s, then back again. “We thought she was dead, but you’ve brought her back to me.” Ranu smiled. “You always were my favorite, Yasha. And if you’re willing to see past old grievances, you could be again.”

Yasha’s vision blurred. Red, blood-red, sunset red, anger that shredded her lungs and throat as she screamed it into the world. She launched herself at Ranu. The Magician’s Judge slipped from its sheathe with a hiss. She struck down, aiming for the throat. Just before the strike could fall, pain exploded down her neck, through her head, knocking her to her knees.

“Nice fucking try,” Keyra snarled. Before Yasha could retaliate, Keyra’s chains were around her throat, metal links digging into her windpipe. She gasped, choking, one hand clawing at the chain as the other tangled in her attacker’s hair. She ripped out a clump of Keyra’s matted hair, taking a braided string of beads with it. Her prisoner yelped, but didn’t relent.

Yasha’s vision faded. Even with her darkvision, the magical darkness spreading across the marshes closed in from all sides as her limbs grew weak and her thoughts slowed to a crawl. _Beau…_ Her eyes slid shut. _I’m sorry._ Her lungs burned. And then there was nothing at all.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Nott wanted to run. More than anything, she wanted to grab her satchel and flask and disappear into the woods, to leave it all behind and start over somewhere far away. As she stood on the hill overlooking the village where she’d grown up, where she’d lived and laughed and fallen in love, her chest constricted until she couldn’t breathe, air catching in her throat, heavy in her lungs…

“Nott, are you alright?”

 _Caleb._ Nott shook herself. No time for this now. No time to be a coward. “Caleb.” Her voice shook, higher than usual. “I’m fine, Caleb. Just thinking about capturing a powerful mage who might also recognize you from the Academy. No big deal.”

Caleb sighed. He sat down next to Nott on the hill, patting the grass beside him. Reluctantly, she sat. He leaned toward her just enough for their shoulders to brush. “You know,” he said, “I knew Eodwulf for many years. Even before we attended the Academy, I knew him. Not well, but still, I have a better sense of how he thinks, and how he works, than most.”

“So you think you can trap him?”

“I think _we_ can trap him. All of us. Tyffial and Cree included.”

Nott’s skin crawled. She ran her fingers over the wrappings on her ears, fingers trembling. “What if it goes wrong?”

“If it goes wrong, then we will all be killed or arrested and taken back to the Academy to face the King’s judgement.”

“Good to know that our worst case scenario really is _the_ worst case scenario.”

Caleb half-smiled. “But if we succeed—”

“If we succeed, we’ll find out what Ikithon’s up to, including why he sent Eodwulf out here to Felderwin.” _And how to change me back,_ Nott thought but didn’t say. _How to give me back my family. My life._

“They are here, aren’t they.” Caleb’s soft words were phrased like a question, but there was no inflection in his tone. “Your family.”

Nott had told him one night a week before, drunk and terrified, after a close call with a couple of assassins that Tyffial believed had been sent by Torrent. As Cree healed Nott’s wounds and Caleb ran his fingers through her hair, Nott let it all out in one painful rush of words and tears. How she’d been kidnapped, along with her husband and son. How goblins had carried her off and punished her when she helped her family escape. How they’d held her down in the river until her lungs filled with water and mud and her eyes burned and…

…And how she’d woken up on the riverbank afterward, filthy and half-dead, and looked into the water only to find a goblin’s face staring back.

Now, sitting on a green hill as the early summer air slipped soft fingers through her hair and over her skin, Nott couldn’t believe that anything bad could ever have happened here. Not in this idyllic village where she’d always felt safe, cared for, loved. Anywhere but here.

“Will you go to them?” She noticed that Caleb wasn’t looking at her. He stared down at the grass, picking at a dandelion, frowning.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s just, they can’t see me like this. They won’t even know it’s me, and they’ll… they’re scared of goblins, of course they are, after what happened. And I can’t… I just can’t do that to them, Caleb.”

Caleb pulled the yellow head off the dandelion. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, staining the pads of his fingers gold. “I understand. I do not think… if I could see my parents now, after what I’ve done, I don’t think I could face them. And I… and you didn’t even do anything wrong. But it would be… hard, I think, for you to see your family without them seeing you. The version of you they remember, that is.”

Nott picked at a clump of grass. It caught on her claws and ripped up in a ball of shredded green stems and mud. “I’ll check on them. Sneak around the back and peer in the window or something. I just want to know they’re safe.”

Caleb nodded. “Of course. If you need help—”

“No. This is something for me to do alone.”

“I understand.”

Nott couldn’t decide if she believed him or not. She stood up and dusted the dirt off her cloak. “Are you going to go with the others? When they catch Eodwulf, will you be there to… _question_ him?”

Caleb’s jaw clenched. He still wouldn’t look at her. “That depends on what kind of questions we are asking.”

Nott hesitated a moment longer. Then she turned and started down the hill, toward the familiar, rustic roofs of the village below. 

Halfway down, she paused, turning to look back at him over her shoulder. Their eyes met. Nott saw the confusion, fear, and anger in Caleb’s eyes. “Be careful, Caleb.” Her voice wavered despite her best efforts to control it. “Don’t let them get into your head.” A meaningful pause. “ _Any_ of them.”

Caleb looked away again. “You, too, Nott. Or…” he noticeably flinched. “Or would you rather I call you Veth, now?”

Nott shook her head. “I’m not Veth,” she said. “Not yet. I think…” she swallowed hard. “I think that you’ll know. When I change.”

Caleb nodded. She followed his gaze, out to the horizon, where thick swirling clouds of darkness pressed in at the edges of civilization. “I’ll see you back at camp,” she said. “And if I don’t, I’ll come find you. No matter what.” She waited for him to reply; when he didn’t, she tugged her hood over her face, crept down the hill, and entered the village of Felderwin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ the people who messaged me on Tumblr trying to TELL me what direction this story should take and how it should end: lmao it's already fully written and anyway I can do what I want, so please fuck off. :)
> 
> @ the people who've messaged me or left comments of any other kind, THANK YOU SO MUCH!! I appreciate all of your support and kindness and honestly I can't say it enough!! :D <3 Hope y'all are having an amazing autumn season, and a very spooky October! :) Love you <3


	28. Part IIII: Chapter XXVIII: Cat and Mouse

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

****

**CAT AND MOUSE**

“I have been looking for you.” Eodwulf’s eyes tracked Caleb as Caleb paced. Chained with the manacles the Nein had taken off Otis back in the Grey Wastes, Eodwulf was helpless, powerless. Physically, at least. Mentally, he seemed as sharp as ever. It was that cleverness, more than the fire and ice Eodwulf could summon with a thought, that terrified Caleb. The idea that, in the time Caleb had spent wandering the wilds and slaying monsters, Eodwulf had been training, learning, searching for the practiced violence Ikithon had nurtured within him. After all, Caleb wasn’t the only one Ikithon had taken an interest in. Caleb was smart, but Eodwulf and Astrid… they were stronger. Their minds hadn’t shattered. And what did that say about them? About what they could do in the name of justice?

 _For the Empire,_ Caleb thought, _they would watch a thousand armies burn._

Molly stood to one side as Tyffial checked and rechecked the ropes holding Eodwulf immobile, wrists chained and strung up over his head. The toes of Eodwulf’s boots barely touched the ground. His hands, Caleb noted, were already turning white. 

Cree stood outside the tiny shack, keeping watch. Caleb could hear her breathing, ragged and fast from the scuffle, just beyond the door.

“You have it, don’t you?”

Caleb refused to look at Eodwulf. “That is not how this works,” he said. “I ask you the questions, and if I like the answers, you stay alive.”

Eodwulf barked a laugh. “You haven’t lost your touch, have you, Bren?”

Caleb flinched. “That’s not my name. Not anymore.” _I lost the right to call myself by the name my parents gave me,_ he didn’t say. _I lost that right long ago._

“And you two.” Eodwulf’s eyes flickered from Tyffial to Molly, then back to Caleb. “You know who you’re running with, Bren? You know who these sick fucks are?”

 _Don’t let them get into your head._ Nott’s voice echoed in his head. Caleb clenched his jaw and kept pacing.

“Lucien Damakos and Tyffial Wase. Man, Trent wasn’t kidding when he said you’d outlast us all, Damakos. How many times have you died now? Two? Three? Four?” Eodwulf laughed, loud and raucous as a raven. “You think you scare me, Bren? You think you can use demons and fiend-hunters to make me talk?”

Caleb turned on Eodwulf. Crossing the room, he lit one hand on fire, holding it up to Eodwulf’s face. “There is no mercy left in me.” He knew how crazy he looked, eyes wild, fingers wreathed in flame. “I am not _using_ them for anything. I’m attempting to make up for the crimes of my past. There are things they need help fixing, and so I’m helping.”

“Caleb—" Molly began, voice low and warning. Tyffial cut him off with a sharp hiss. 

“Let him talk,” Tyffial said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Eodwulf raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what you’re doing, Bren? Do you really?”

Caleb clenched his fist. The fire went out. He stepped back, looking away. “I need a moment alone.” He turned on Molly and Tyffial. “Leave. Give us five minutes.”

Tyffial looked disappointed. Molly looked concerned. Outside, Cree coughed, letting out a hiss of pain.

“Caleb. That’s a shit idea.” Molly fixed him with an intense red stare. “He’s trying to get to you.”

Caleb met his gaze steadily. A flicker of uncertainty flared in Molly’s eyes. “ _Ja._ He is trying.”

Molly sighed. “Fine. _Fine._ But if anything starts to go wrong, if I think there’s even a _chance_ —”

“Mollymauk. I will be fine. I don’t need a babysitter.” 

Molly opened his mouth, but before he could find a retort, Tyffial grabbed him by the collar of his extravagant coat and dragged him out of the room. “Caleb’s the expert,” she said. She gave Caleb a conspiratorial look. “Let him do what he needs to do.”

The door slammed. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of Tyffial and Cree walking away while Molly protested loudly. Eventually, both the footsteps and the voices faded, and Caleb was alone.

No, not alone. 

It would be so much better to be alone.

“You know,” Eodwulf said matter-of-factly, “Damakos used to work with Trent, back before he formed his own little cult.” 

Caleb closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself. Preparing for round two. “You are lying. I never heard of Lucien Damakos while I was at the Academy. If he’d been working with Trent, I would have heard of him.”

“I hadn’t. Not until Trent briefed me for this mission. He took me aside and said, _‘Eodwulf, there’s a devil-blood travelling with Bren who used to belong to me. If you find Bren, and this creature is with him, bring them back alive. They are both of value to me_.’”

Caleb shook his head. His mouth was dry. He felt numb, so heavy and tired he thought he’d fall to his knees and never rise again. “That isn’t possible. How did Trent know that Mollymauk—Lucien—was travelling with me? He could not have known.”

“You’re forgetting about Narayah Veltov. When she captured Damakos and tried to use him to decode the Book of the Damned, she wasn’t careful about who she told, the crazy bitch. Someone in her circle told Trent. Trent recognized Damakos, but on his own with no memories and no power, Damakos was worth nothing. Trent didn’t know that the Book of the Damned had been recovered. If he had, things would’ve gone very differently. Of course, for the Book to be useful to Trent, he needed the other two components.”

Caleb stiffened. “Which are…?”

“The Caster and the Conduit.”

“What does that mean?”

“We lost the Conduit in Zadash. Trent tried to take it, but it got away.” Eodwulf sighed. “I can tell you this because I know it doesn’t make an ounce of sense to you. And what do you care, anyway? Disgraced, broken, crazy. There’s barely enough left of you to call you human.”

Caleb’s fingertips burned red-hot. He clenched his jaw, fighting a surge of anger. _I know more than you think_. He recalled the battle in Zadash, the crumbling tower and the hooded figures sweeping the skies. Searching. Searching for the object in his hands, the mysterious dodecahedron that pulsed with power as it settled in his palms. 

_I have your Conduit,_ he thought. _You will not find it, because I have it here. The one place Trent cannot look._

Instead, he asked, “How long did Damakos work with Trent?”

Eodwulf laughed. “Long enough for Trent to get attached. Apparently, Damakos needed protection. Torrent was after him and the Tombtakers, and in exchange for their safety, Damakos gave himself to Trent. In every way.”

Caleb’s blood ran cold. His heart paused, then began beating again, painfully fast and hard. “That… he wouldn’t do that.” But he _would_ , Caleb thought, and felt sick. Molly would do anything to keep the people he loved safe. And if the people under his command were in danger, if he thought he could save them, he would. Even as Lucien, that fierce desire to protect had been there. _He died for people he’d known for a month. There is nothing he wouldn’t do._

“Believe it or not,” Eodwulf said, “their deal lasted three years before Damakos broke it off. Just up and disappeared one morning. Nothing for ten years, Trent told me, and then, one day, there he was again. Looking for Narayah Veltov, asking if she was available to perform a ritual. Apparently, he had something she wanted bad enough to risk betraying the Empire itself, because she accepted his proposition and performed the ritual.”

Caleb reached for the Book. His hands pressed against nothing. He’d left it outside, stashed under a pile of leaves and rotting wood. If something went wrong, he couldn’t risk Trent getting his hands on it. 

Smoothing the creases in his coat, Caleb began pacing again.

“The Book of Bensozia,” he said. “That was what Damakos promised in exchange for Veltov’s services.”

Eodwulf was silent for a long moment. “There aren’t many people capable of conducting the rituals in that book. It’d drive most people crazy to even try. It drove Veltov crazy, and she was sent to an asylum.” A knowing smile. “Just like you, Bren.”

Caleb froze. The world fell away, and he was in a white cell _, hands bound in sigil-covered chains, the fire in his veins condensing into a single point of pain behind his heart._

_A woman knelt in front of him. She stretched out her hands, and instinctively he reached for her, threading their fingers together. The woman whispered something under her breath, an incantation in a language Caleb didn’t understand, and suddenly the fogginess in his mind evaporated. The chains around his wrists melted away. The fire in his blood surged, fingertips glowing like embers. The past, cloaked in shadow and doubt, became clear as polished crystal._

_“Take it,” the woman said. Her face was haggard, red hair tangled and matted, falling across her forehead and into her green eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about her, like a half-remembered photograph of a long-forgotten relative. “I know what you did, what you can do.” A surge of power, of cold, tingling ice passing from her palms into his bloodstream. “Take this gift. I’ve worked for years to understand it, to withstand its power. And yet here I am.” She laughed, eyes wild, face contorted. There was no humor in the sound. “You can take him down. You can burn it all down. So take it._ ”

Caleb snapped back to the present. He shook himself, breathing hard and fast. He felt Eodwulf’s eyes on him, piercing, perceptive. “I… _ja_ , I was in an asylum. But I have recovered. The false memories that Trent planted in my head are gone. Someone at the asylum removed them.”

Eodwulf frowned. “Well that’s weird. Did you know them?”

“You aren’t asking the questions.”

“But I am, aren’t I, Bren?”

“ _Nein._ You are not. So shut up and let me do what I am here to do, so that we can both move on.”

A knock on the door interrupted Eodwulf’s retort. Molly poked his head inside the shack. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but your five minutes are up.” He pushed the door all the way open. Tyffial followed him in. Cree was absent, and there were traces of blood on Tyffial’s gloved hands. Perhaps Cree’s injuries were worse than she’d admitted, Caleb thought.

“Wase. Damakos.” Eodwulf greeted them with false formality. “I was just telling my friend Bren about Trent’s deal with the devil.” He laughed, loud and fearless. “About how _intimately_ Damakos and Trent knew each other, back in the day.”

Caleb watched confusion turn to horror on Molly’s face. Molly lunged across the room, seized Eodwulf by the throat, and snarled in his face. “ _Liar_.”

Eodwulf choked. He kneed Molly in the stomach; Molly staggered back, gasping. Eodwulf leaned in as much as the chains allowed, sneering. “He _owned_ you, demon. That’s what he told me. That you sold yourself to anyone who’d buy you in exchange for the safety of your cultist friends.”

Tyffial caught Molly by the back of his coat before he could get his wind back. “Lucien—Mollymauk— _stop._ You’re playing right into his hands.”

“Get off me.” Molly turned and bared his fangs at her. “This isn’t… it’s not…” He shrugged her off. Turning, fists clenched and jaw set, he shoved the door open and disappeared into the growing night.

Caleb considered going after him, but the sickness stirred at the thought, and he swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Tyffial turned away. She glared at Eodwulf over her shoulder, pulled up her hood, and followed Molly into the dark.

“It’s only the truth.” Eodwulf laughed again, sharp and humorless. He rolled his head, neck cracking, and sighed. “What else do you want to know?”

“Is there someone at the Academy who would be able to reverse a…” Caleb searched for the right word, “… _curse_ used to permanently change a person’s race?”

“You mean True Polymorph? I couldn’t reverse it. Most people at the Academy couldn’t. But—and I think you already know this, so I don’t know why you’re asking—anyone in the Cerberus Assembly could pull it off, I’m sure. Anyone specializing in transmutation—” his eyes narrowed slightly, and he smirked at Caleb, “—could eventually learn to do something like that. Is that why your goblin friend has stuck with you this long? Waiting for you to become worth something to her?”

Caleb’s heart jolted. He looked at Eodwulf—really looked—and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like looking away. He stepped toward his old colleague. Fire licked his fingertips. “How do you know about that?”

Eodwulf shrugged. “We’ve been hunting you. Trent may not have been able to find you because of that clever little charm of yours, but we heard of your exploits. It didn’t take long for stories to reach us. In Zadash, a couple of your companions spoke briefly with Trent. The Xhorhasian attracted our attention; after that, we watched her carefully. And that’s when… well. When we found out where you’d slunk off to.”

“Did you think I was dead? When the asylum burned?”

Eodwulf shrugged, or as close as he could with his hands bound above his head. “There was speculation, but at that point no one cared. It was disgraceful—first you, then Veltov breaking like that. Turning against us.”

Caleb glared. “I am not sure that is the word I would use.”

“What? _Break?_ It’s exactly what—” 

“I am not sure I turned against the Empire. I simply stopped serving it.”

Eodwulf laughed. “Bold words, Bren. Look at your companions: cultists, devils, Xhorhasians, goblins. In short, _criminals._ ”

“ _Ja,_ ” Caleb said. “They are criminals. But they are loyal. They are kind, and brave, and they care about things that matter. What the Empire does… the things that Trent had us pursuing… the war that is being fought right now… what is the point, Eodwulf? All war does is make men into monsters.”

Eodwulf threw back his head and laughed. “Oh man, I missed your particular brand of stupid. You know—” he grinned, cocking his head, “—when you _left,_ Astrid and I hooked up. We’re engaged now. Which, if you were wondering, is why I haven’t dangled that particular carrot over your head yet.”

The flames at Caleb’s fingertips rose, flaring in the half-light. He breathed deep, tasting ash, exhaling smoke. “ _Gut._ You deserve each other.”

“Maybe we do. But look at what you have. Or rather, what you don’t have. And you deserve every inch of it, don’t you? _Don’t you,_ Bren? I mean, it’s one thing to poison your parents—they go fast, and easy—but _burning…_ worst way to die, isn’t it?”

Caleb’s vision went white, then gold. Flames flickered, violent and bright, catching in his clothes, burning the blistering skin off his bones. When he came back to himself, Eodwulf was screaming. Flames burst from Eodwulf’s chest, his eyes, his open mouth. His clothes were on fire, his hair going up like dry grass. He writhed, chains biting into his wrists. His blood hissed as it slid down his wrists and into the inferno his body had become.

Caleb swore loudly. He stumbled back, bracing himself on the wall, breath sticking in his throat. “ _Nein!_ Eodwulf—!”

Tyffial burst through the door. She hissed, swore in Elvish, and threw a dagger across the room, the well-aimed blade cutting Eodwulf down. Pulling off her cloak, she threw it over his burning body. She straddled him, snarling as she pinned his arms, smothering the flames with her leather-clad body. After a few long moments of screaming, Eodwulf went limp. Tyffial pulled off the cloak. “Fuck.”

Caleb turned and braced himself against the wall. He was covered in cold sweat. His hands shook, knees threatening to go out. Kneeling, he vomited, overcome by the smell of cooked flesh and settling ash. Coughed and wiping his mouth, he raised his head. “Tyffial. Is he…?”

Tyffial shook her head. She stood up, whirled around, and glared at him. “He’s not dead. But unless we get him to a cleric, he’ll die an agonizing death that could take days, but will definitely happen.”

Caleb swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “I… Cree is a cleric of some type, yes? She has healed us before.”

Tyffial kicked a rock; it skittered across the dirt floor and hit the half-open door with a dull _thud._ “Cree’s tapped, not to mention half-conscious. That fucker—” she jerked her head at Eodwulf, “—got her good. So normally I wouldn’t give a fuck if he lives or dies, but he had more he could tell us. And if he dies now, that’s it. Another dead end.”

“He knew. About the Book of the Damned, he _knew._ ”

Tyffial narrowed her eyes, head bowed, teeth showing between curled lips. “Guess Lucien shared it with him. I didn’t know. A steep price for protection, I have to say, especially on top of everything else he gave up for us.”

Caleb closed his eyes. He felt sick again. Wrapping an arm around his midsection, he braced his other arm on the wall, pressing his forehead to the rotting wood. _There was no reason,_ he thought, _to knock down this particular nest of wasps. We did not learn anything new. Nothing of note. Nothing we couldn’t figure out on our own._

“Go talk to him.”

Caleb raised his head. He glanced at Eodwulf’s singed, unconscious body, and looked away with a shaky gasp. “Mollymauk, you mean?”

“He… _cares_ about you.” There was something in Tyffial’s tone that Caleb couldn’t place. Something that wasn’t quite anger, and wasn’t quite resignation. “I would know. Lucien and I, we were… close _._ Not as close as he was with Cree, but still. I knew him as well as anyone. We went through hell with him.” A small, sardonic smile. “Somewhat literally.”

Caleb shook his head. “I’ve been keeping secrets from him, Tyffial. There are things that I have seen, from his past. It seems that, whenever he is vulnerable, or we are touching… there are parts of his memory that transfer to me. And I don’t know if he remembers any of it. I am too afraid to ask.”

Tyffial nudged Eodwulf’s limp form with the toe of her leather boot. “You know,” she said, “there’s a really easy way to find out.”

Caleb remained kneeling for a long moment, the dirt hard and cold under his knees. The room smelled like vomit and burning flesh, stress-sweat and rotting wood. If he stayed there for a minute longer, he was afraid he would break again. One day, he would break, and there would be no fixing him. He wasn’t sure when that moment would come, but it hung over him like storm clouds on a spring morning.

Rising to his feet, he staggered toward the door. Pushing it open with shaking hands, he turned briefly to look at Tyffial. “What will you do to Eodwulf?”

Tyffial smiled grimly. “Everything,” she said. “He’ll die. But not until I’ve cut every last shred of information out of him.”

Caleb’s stomach churned. He looked away, out into the thick, choking night. “I will leave you to it.” He pushed past the door and into the dark.

“You know,” Tyffial called after him, “he remembers more than you think. Denial’s as strong as any spell, but it’s there, all the things that he was. And if he doesn’t let those things out, they will come out on their own. Perhaps he is a better source of information than Eodwulf. But until he accepts that, that knowledge may as well have been buried with him.”

Caleb wanted to say something, anything. But instead he pushed the door shut and, feeling like a terrible coward, he walked away. _I was Eodwulf’s friend, once. We came from the same place. We shared the same path. I am not sure he deserves this._ But he kept walking. The screams rose over the forest, sharp and piercing, and he kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My motivation is at an all-time low, and on top of that for some reason a ton of people in the past two months have been unsubscribing from this story (that stuff usually doesn't bother me, but it has been recently and idk why aaahh) but I think I'm still gonna try to keep posting chapters until it's done because I know there are some people enjoying it, and I wrote this for myself and for those people anyway :,) <3
> 
> Big love to y'all, and I hope you're all having an excellent week! Love you! <3


	29. Part IIII: Chapter XXIX: Threats and Promises

****

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NEIN**

****

**THREATS AND PROMISES**

“It’s a stupid plan, Jester, but we’ve been lucky enough so far; maybe that luck’ll hold for just a few more days.” Fjord’s heart beat like a hammer on an anvil. Standing in the hallway outside the armory, waiting for Jester’s training partner to arrive, he couldn’t hide his rising nerves. “Let’s go over this one more time, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, Fjord. I love going over plans, especially since this one is so brilliant, and I came up with it and everything.” Jester pressed her back to the wall, head tilted back, the silver tips of her horns catching the faint blue light of a particularly hot-burning torch set high on the wall. She was smiling, hands wrapped in the fold of her skirt, nervousness and excitement blending on her features. “Okay, so here’s the plan: we pretend to be making out in the hall, and when Lyra comes, we act like we’re so obliviously in love that we don’t see her, and run right into her, knocking her over. Then we sneakily take the key, use the clay to make a print of it _reeeeally_ quick, and drop the key back on the floor like it fell off her belt or something. Okay?”

Fjord held up a hand. His heart beat faster, a feat he’d previously believed was physically impossible. “Hold up. Wait, wait, wait. That is _not_ the plan we agreed on.”

Jester frowned. Her whole demeanor changed. “Oh. I mean, I know we were going to pretend to be fighting, but it’s just… I don’t think it would be _convincing,_ Fjord. Remember that time in the basement during the whole Iron Shepherds thing? Those guys totally didn’t believe us. And Lyra is like, _suuuuper_ smart; she will totally see right through it, and then we’ll be totally fucked.”

Fjord ran a hand over his face to hide the creeping warmth rising up his neck into his cheeks. “Listen, Jester. I don’t think I can do this.”

The disappointment on her face turned to hurt, then anger. “Oh, what? You don’t think I’m pretty enough for someone like you? Or is it because you don’t want anyone seeing you kissing a devil-blood like me? Because the people around here have made it really clear a _lot_ of times that I’m not… that I’m _weird,_ Fjord, and not just because I’m weird the way I’m usually weird.”

Fjord’s chest hurt. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, trying desperately to think of something not-stupid to say. “Jester. _Jes._ I had no idea people were givin’ you a hard time about that.”

He reached for her, and she took a step back, crossing her arms and frowning. “I don’t want your sympathy, Fjord. I don’t want you to be nice to me because you feel _sorry_ for me.”

Fjord heaved a deep sigh. Well, he was in it now. Might as well go the whole damn way. “Jester, it’s not any of that. I don’t wanna hurt you, you understand that, right?”

“Too late,” Jester whispered, and the pain in his chest deepened.

“I can’t fake bein’ in love with you. I can’t do that.”

“Fine. It was a stupid plan. You’re right, so there. Are you happy? I said it. We can do it the other way, like we said earlier, I don’t even care—”

“Hold on one sec, alright? Let me say my piece before you put the proverbial noose around my neck.” Miraculously, Jester allowed him that. Fjord took a deep breath, shaking himself mentally. “I can’t fake it, Jes, because there’s nothin’ fake about it.” As soon as the words were out, he hated how they sounded. _Cheesy, too cheesy, and not direct enough,_ he berated himself. _Why is this shit so damn hard?_

Jester’s frown deepened. And then something changed in her expression, and her eyes widened. She shook her head. “You said that wasn’t true. Back in the pit, back when we rescued Molly from the compound, you said you didn’t like me like that.”

“And I didn’t. Well, maybe a little, but not enough to commit to anything. But now, I’ve told you about my past. All of it. Over the past few months I’ve shared myself with you, and you’ve shared yourself with me. And I feel like it’s been enough time, that I know you well enough to say it.”

Jester uncrossed her arms. Her emotions were raw on her face—hope, fear, desire. “Then say it.”

Fjord held out a hand and she took it. He drew her against him, taking her other hand and clasping it tight. She was so close, and he was terrified, scared of the words unsaid, of all the times he’d nearly confessed and then hadn’t. Of all the times, _of all the fuckin’ goddamn times, why does it have to be now?_

“I’m going to kiss you, Fjord. Is that okay?”

Fjord knew she could feel the slight tremor in his hands. He nodded. “Yeah, Jes. I think…” he cleared his throat, forcing himself to relax. “…I think I’d like that a lot.”

She reached up and cupped his face in one hand, fingers skating over the thin hairs on the side of his head. She went up on her tiptoes and smiled, bright and so, so beautiful, and kissed the tip of his nose. He huffed, and she giggled. And then she was kissing him, really kissing him, and there wasn’t enough air in his lungs, in the room, in the world. She squeezed his hand. He snapped out of his momentary stupor and kissed her back. He cupped her neck with his free hand, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, fingers twined through thick blue hair. It was too much and not enough. Everything he’d imagined, bright star burning in his chest, a blaze of heat sliding, hot and electric, through his blood.

She pulled away. Her lips brushed his cheek as she leaned in, breath hot against his ear. “Say it,” she whispered.

Fjord closed his eyes. Her hand in his hair clenched, claws digging into his scalp. He opened his eyes with a soft gasp. “I… Jester.” He took her face in his hands, leaning back just enough to look at her. “I’ll say it. I promise you I will, but not here.” Before disappointment could overtake her expression again, he added, “This isn’t the right place. When I say it to you, I don’t want it to be a stolen moment. It’s gonna be _our_ moment, Jes, and it’s gonna be goddamn beautiful. Alright?”

She smiled so bright he thought it might blind him. “Alright, Fjord. Alright.” She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “But just in case we die or something before we get out of here, I’m going to write it down on a little piece of paper so you can have it. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” he echoed as she pulled out her sketchbook and ink. He watched her fingers grip the pen—artist’s fingers, clever and strong—as she scrawled a surprisingly long message in red ink. Her tongue stuck out between clenched teeth, concentration written in every line of her face. Bouncing up onto her toes and smiling, she held out the paper to him. He took it. Holding it up to the dull blue lantern light, he squinted at the elegant words. 

_I love you more than donuts,_ the letter began, _and drawing, and playing pranks on people. I love you as much as I love my mom, and as much as I love the Traveler, which is as much as I can love anyone ever. I love you, Fjord, and I love everything that you’ve been and are and will be. I am really, totally, extra super in love with you. So promise you won’t die, okay?_

Fjord smiled shakily. His eyes stung and he wiped at them with one hand, clutching Jester’s letter in the other. “I’ll try, Jes. I’ll try my goddamn best.” He carefully folded the paper, smoothing the wrinkles with the pads of his fingers, and tucked it into his armor, right over his rapidly beating heart. “Now, you’re gonna have to give me a little while to come up with somethin’ as pretty as that, alright?” 

Jester laughed, and the warmth in Fjord’s chest blazed back to full brightness. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her again, brief but meaningful. “You ready to pull off the greatest fuckin’ heist in the history of the Empire?”

Jester bared her fangs in amischievous grin. “Super secret spies?” she said.

He reached for her hand, twining their fingers together. “Super secret spies.”

Down the hall, voices sounded. “Just going to get my gear,” someone said. Fjord recognized Lyra’s voice—Trent’s newest apprentice, the Academy’s favorite up and coming magical prodigy. “Be back in a minute.”

“Let’s do it,” Jester whisper-hissed. She grabbed Fjord by the front of his armor and pulled him against her. He yelped as she spun and pinned him against the wall. Just before she kissed him, she asked, “Is this okay?” 

“Yeah. More than okay. Now, Super Secret Agent Lavorre, shut up ‘n’ kiss me.”

She did. 

Lyra, whistling to herself as she turned into the hall leading to the armory, never knew what hit her.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Beau woke up tied to a pole with a massive headache and at least a gallon of rancid swamp-water dripping down her face. Keyra stood over her, holding a metal bucket.

“Thought you weren’t going to wake up,” Keyra said. “Would’ve made it easier for me.” She spit at Beau, tossing the bucket aside. It landed a ways off with a dull _clunk_.

Bleary and in pain, Beau looked around. She was in a clearing at the center of a little ring of houses (or huts, more accurately) tied to one of three enormous wooden poles sticking out of the barren dirt like crooked teeth. Her hands were bound behind her back and chained to the pole; she shifted around, wincing at the raw, painful rub of chains against her chaffed wrists. “Fuck.”

Keyra rolled her eyes. “Is that the only word you can say?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s two.”

“Once I get outta these chains I’m gonna find my staff and shove it so far up your ass it’ll come out your fuckin’ mouth. There. Was that enough words for you?”

Keyra shrugged. “I honestly couldn’t care less what you think you’ll do to me if you ever get out of this. Which is actually surprisingly likely, given the deal Yasha’s made with my mother.”

Beau’s blood ran cold. “What deal?”

“Bargaining for your life. She promised to rejoin the tribe and marry my brother if we let you go. No fancy escort back to the Empire, no supplies. Just throw you out into the swamp and turn the other way.” She shook her head. “It’s a bad deal for both of you. And for me.” She spit again. “I hate that woman. I’d rather kill her myself than watch her marry my brother.”

Beau spit back. “Good. We have that in common. Not killing Yasha, that is, but wanting to kill someone to stop that marriage. Except I’d kill your brother, and hopefully you, too, instead. Unless Yasha wants to do that part.”

“I didn’t understand any of that senseless rambling.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s because you’re a stupid idiot. Ever think of that? No, wait, you probably didn’t think of that, because you’re so fucking stupid.”

“Mature.”

“Fuck you.”

“Back to the beginning, I see.” Keyra examined her nails, looking suddenly bored. “Guess it’s time to knock you out again. Can’t have you sneaking off before my mother is ready to seal the deal.”

Beau gritted her teeth as Keyra picked up the bucket again. Keyra raised it over her head like a club. Beau ducked the first blow, and the bucket bounced off the pole. She kicked Keyra in the shins. Keyra shrieked, and the second blow didn’t miss.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Yasha could barely look as Beau was dragged into the main hall bleeding from two gashes on her head, fighting hard against the brutally tight chains clamped around rubbed-raw wrists. True to form, Beau was swearing creatively, promising a wide range of new and exciting deaths for the two warriors dragging her across the floor. 

Yasha didn’t want to look, but she did. 

Across the room, Beau met her gaze. “Hey! Hey, Yasha! You wanna tell these fuckin’ asshats to back off? They’re messing with my badass vibes!”

Yasha smiled. A tiny, sad smile that did nothing to tamp down the grief tearing her heart to pieces. Head bowed in a show of submission, she turned back toward the aging, silver-haired warrior standing at the center of the court hall. One of the leader’s advisors, a man Yasha had known from the day she’d joined the tribe until the day she left, refused to meet her eyes. The others, some of whom she knew, most of which she didn’t, followed his lead.

Ranu, on the other hand, met her gaze with an icy glare. “So this is your companion.” She spat out _companion_ like a curse. “Looking at her, I have to wonder why you’re bothering to keep her alive. Empire-spawn are weak from birth. This one won’t last a day in the badlands.”

“I’ll last longer than you!” Beau shouted. Yasha closed her eyes, wishing she was anywhere else in the world. “Because we’re gonna fuck you up, right, Yasha?”

Yasha shook her head. She opened her eyes and forced herself to look at Beau. “Be quiet,” she said.

Beau gave her a wounded look. “Hey, you’re not serious about this marriage shit, are you?” 

Yasha stayed silent. 

“ _Really_? You’re just gonna give up like that? What the fuck, Yasha?”

“Shut her up!” Ranu snarled. Immediately, one of the warriors holding Beau’s chains punched Beau hard in the face, splitting her lip. Blood dripped down Beau’s chin and onto the dirt floor. Yasha’s heart hurt; she wanted to shove the guards out of the way and take Beau’s face in her hands, to wipe away the blood and tear off the chains and—

“The deal is done.” Ranu’s voice, strong as a storm, echoed through the narrow hall. “Yasha Nydoorin. Tonight, you will marry my son.”

Yasha swallowed the sickness stirring in her stomach. She held her head high, suddenly defiant, and met Ranu’s eyes without fear. After all, how could she feel fear when she felt nothing at all?

“Release the captive into the swamps. Take her a few miles out, and make sure she can’t find her way back. Knock her out if you have to.” The leader gestured for the guards to drag Beau away. Beau fought as hard on the way out as she had on the way in. Yasha closed her eyes, listening to her voice until the shouts and threats faded to the distant buzz of summer insects. 

Ranu turned back to Yasha. “Now that I’ve seen her, I feel you’re getting the short end of the deal, Yasha. But maybe your lovers are doomed no matter what.”

 _We’ll see,_ Yasha thought but didn’t say. _When I marry your son, how long will he last?_

“Bring my son,” the leader commanded. “Prepare him for the ceremony.”

 _At least Beau will get away,_ Yasha thought as the oppressive darkness of fate tightened like a noose around her neck. _Please, Kord, keep her safe._

In the distance, a roll of thunder. Yasha didn’t know if she’d imagined it, but when she closed her eyes, lightning unfurled behind her lids, a thousand radiant beams of vengeance splitting open a silver sky.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Molly stood outside the borders of Felderwin and waited for the others to return. Nott was still missing—Caleb said she’d gone to check in on her family, so he wasn’t worried—and Caleb had disappeared into the town without a word to anyone. 

Tyffial appeared at his side. She laid a hand on his shoulder and he jumped, inhaling sharply and pulling away. His hand went to the hilt of Summer’s Dance; she held up her hands, smirking. “Whoa, easy. I’m just checking in with a status report.”

Molly gripped the hilt of his scimitar and swallowed the sickness hanging, thick and heavy, in his chest. He couldn’t shake it, the awful, dirty feeling clinging to him like a second skin. Every time he closed his eyes, he was assaulted by memories, flashes of things that should have died with Lucien. There were times now where he wanted to rip himself open and tear those feelings out. To gouge out the pieces of a past that belonged to someone else.

Tyffial sighed. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve found out?”

“Where’s Cree?” Molly didn’t look at her. He slid Summer’s Dance partway out of its sheathe, running the pad of his forefinger over the sleek golden blade.

“Still recovering. Her wounds weren’t bad, but that mage did something to her. It’s a curse of some kind; I can’t figure out how to reverse it. She might just have to sit it out.”

Molly clenched his jaw. “And if it doesn’t get better? What then? Do we leave her in a shallow grave in the woods, no headstone, no marker? Nothing to show she existed at all?”

A long, tense silence. “That mage—Eodwulf—didn’t deserve to be remembered. He almost killed Cree. He would’ve killed the rest of us, if he’d gotten the chance.”

Molly wanted to yell at her, to tell her that wasn’t the point. To shake some goddamn morals into her. “It’s not about _deserve._ ” He kept his tone carefully neutral. “He was somebody. I’m sure that he had a family out there somewhere, and they—”

“He killed them.”

“Pardon?”

“Like Caleb. Ikithon had him kill his family to prove his loyalty. A graduation of sorts.” Tyffial smiled grimly. “Don’t feel sorry for that asshole. He fucked Widogast up bad. Got into his head. And,” she added, eyes narrowing, gaze cold and clear as she watched him from under her hood, “he got to you, too. If I hadn’t held you back, you would have killed him. Don’t deny it.”

Molly looked away, back toward the distant, jagged peaks of the Ashkeeper Mountains. The darkness in the east had all but consumed them. Shadows lay, thick and black as congealed blood, over the lands beyond the Empire. They were running out of time, he realized. It was petty, trivial, what they were dealing with now. Torrent, Lucien, his past… none of it mattered. Nothing but the Book of the Damned. Everyone, it seemed, was looking for it now. Ikithon, Eodwulf, Torrent, most likely Zoran Kluthidol, the last living member of the Tombtakers unaccounted for. The darkness in the east was somehow connected to the Book. The forces rising in the wastes of Xhorhas had a purpose. Molly had a dark, inexplicable feeling that their purpose had something to do with his past. And, as much as he hated to admit it, that meant he’d have to face it sooner rather than later.

“Fine. So maybe you wouldn’t have killed him. But Mollymauk, you can’t deny that your memories are coming back. It’s only a matter of time before you remember enough to understand what’s happening. Because here’s the truth: you’re the only one who ever did.”

Molly slid his scimitar back into its sheathe with a _hiss_ and a _clunk._ “Fuck.”

Tyffial sighed. “You remember it, don’t you? You remember _him._ ”

Molly shook his head. “Asmodeus? Not really, no. Bits and pieces. Nothing concrete.”

“But it’s there.”

Molly clenched his fists until his palms bled, claws leaving red pinpricks in his skin. “It’s there.” Admitting it felt like defeat. Tasting bile, he turned away, back toward the darkening mountains. “What did you find out? And better question: was any of it reliable?”

“Eodwulf told me the truth. As I’m sure you remember, there are some things I’m good at. Zoran was better—always knew how to poke the right spots until the truth drained out; probably why the Myriad hired him to do their dirty work—but I’m not bad at it.” He heard the pride creeping into her voice. In that instant, he hated her. He wanted to draw his scimitars and run her through, to hold her up against the light of the setting sun and feel her hot blood slide over his fingers like newborn snakes. 

As if sensing the dark turn his thoughts had taken, Tyffial hesitated for a long moment before continuing. “The dodecahedron that Widogast carries. It came from Xhorhas, correct? It’s quite possibly the most powerful magical object left in the world, aside from the Book of Bensozia. Which, apparently, is bound to it. Eodwulf said Ikithon was searching for the other Conduits—there were nine in all—but this is the only one that survived. According to Ikithon’s research, which apparently has been extremely extensive, the nine Fatestones—that’s what the Conduits were called in the Age of Arcanum,—were forged in the Nine Hells by the archdevils themselves.” 

A heavy, meaningful pause. Molly tilted his head back, focusing on the gentle slide of summer air over his exposed skin, and tried not to remember why this was significant.

Tyffial continued. “The first Fatestone had four sides. The second five, then six, and all the way to twelve. Nine in total. The ninth—the only one that survived the Calamity—is the most powerful. They tried, but no mortal or immortal could destroy it. Eodwulf said that, according to passages translated from the Book of Bensozia, the only one who can unmake it is the one who made it.”

“Asmodeus.” Molly heard the defeat in his voice, felt it churning like waves in a hurricane. “Well, that’s fucking fantastic. Can’t wait to march into the Hells and ask him nicely to destroy his favorite murder toy.”

Tyffial was silent for a long moment. “You’re joking, but that might be how we have to do it.”

“No.” Molly shook his head vigorously. Something scratched at the crumbling barriers in his mind, vicious and sharp-toothed and terrified. “ _No._ There’s no bargaining with Asmodeus. With any of them. They’ll rope you in with pretty contracts and prettier words, and next thing you know, your soul is forfeit.”

“I know. You told me what he was like a thousand times.” Another loaded pause. “Do you remember the others? The other eight warriors Asmodeus trained?

Molly closed his eyes. _Nine children. Nine eyes. Nine bloody spots inked in his flesh, permanent, unshakable. Nahnahvahn, the Ninth Warrior, guiding his company of nine through the wastelands of Nine Hells._

“You tried. You tried to save them, but Mollymauk, here’s the truth: only one of you could survive. You told me that you escaped the Hells. You know that’s not true. No one escapes that horrible place.”

Molly snarled. Blood dripped between his fingers, claws sinking deeper, deeper. “So what? It was all a lie? Just another fucking test, another chance to see how I’d cope? How I’d handle losing everyone I loved?”

“Not entirely. They never meant for you to take the Ninth Fatestone.”

Molly smiled a sarcastic, pained smile. His chest ached. “Wonderful. So glad the cursed artifact survived, even if the people I’d sworn to protect didn’t.”

Tyffial’s hands were suddenly on him, one on his neck, one on his hand. Her fingers covered the blood-red spots he’d attempted to hide with ink. He tried to pull away, but found himself frozen, immobile. “They gave you their lifeforce, Lucien.” He shivered as her breath ghosted over his cheek. Her fingers were cold on his feverish skin. “Everything they were, everything they knew. Do you have any idea how much power you had, once? The ritual, the one that killed you. It wasn’t the mage who did that. Whatever you did, it literally sucked the life out of you. The only reason you came back at all… well. I’m sure you’ll remember, eventually.” Her eyes searched his face, analyzing his reaction, looking for something they both knew wasn’t there. “Or maybe you won’t. Maybe the reason you don’t remember is because you learned something so terrible, or so secret, that whoever sent you back couldn’t risk your remembrance.”

Molly shook his head. He swayed, stunned and reeling. Memories nipped at him like hunting dogs at his heels. “Narayah Veltov did that. She killed me, erased my memories, brought me back. You know perfectly well that—”

“That she worshipped Asmodeus? That Bensozia was her patron?”

Molly inhaled sharply. The world spun. He wanted to close his eyes, to block it all out, but the things he needed to escape were inside him. He felt sick. He wanted to run. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

“Why do you think she could read the Book without immediately succumbing to it? She should’ve lost her mind the moment she attempted that first ritual. But she didn’t. And now you know why.”

In a sharp, painful flash, Molly thought about Caleb. Caleb, who kept the Book with him at all times, who sat by the fire flipping through its pages late at night, brow furrowed as he contemplated jagged symbols scrawled across ageless pages. Caleb, who had gone mad once, and seemed always to teeter on the edge of sanity. Who couldn’t afford another tragedy, another push in the wrong direction. _Caleb…_

“I can hear you thinking.” Tyffial pulled away. Where her hands had touched him, he burned. He imagined that the snake on his arm had come alive, writhing, hissing, glaring up at him with one red eye.

In the distance, the sun sank into the distant sea. Molly ran his tongue over dry lips, then wiped his bloody hands on his pants. “How does Asmodeus get his power?”

“From the souls of the damned.”

“He feeds off them. Off their lifeforce.”

“That’s the essence of it, yes. All devils do, as far as I know. That’s the deal he struck, after the Calamity, in exchange for remaining in his realm and keeping his subjects under control.”

“And how do we get our power?” Molly stared into the growing dark. Silver mist slid through his veins, feeding the monsters living in his memory. “Blood Hunters. How do we do what we do?”

“We sacrifice our own vitality. You know that. Why are you—?”

“Exactly.” Molly exhaled, chest empty, eyes unfocused. “We’re just like him, aren’t we? We just got the short end of the stick.”

“Lucien—” 

“Don’t call me that. Lucien’s dead. I’m not him.” Anger flared, red-hot and painful, under his skin. Not at Tyffial—not really—but at himself. Because he didn’t believe his own words. He whirled around and snarled in her face. “Find the others. Tell them what you told me.”

Tyffial faced him, eyes cold and expression neutral, and yet he detected a trace of fear in her gaze. Distant and hidden, but there. “All of it?”

Molly tamped down the rage as it rose, thick and choking, in his throat. He clenched his hands again, claws sinking into the gouges he’d left in his own skin. “About the dodecahedron. Tell them what it is, and where it came from.”

“And your part in all this?”

“Don’t you fucking dare. I’ll tell them when I’m ready for them to know.”

“And when will that be?” Tyffial took a step back, turning around. She started away across the mud and grass, toward the sparkling lights of the little town. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. Under her hoods, he caught the faintest glimmer of green eyes in the faded lanternlight. “It isn’t up to you to decide who knows what. Not when you barely know your own name.” Before he could reply, she whirled around and disappeared into the night, a phantom cloaked in shadow, swallowed whole by the rising dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm done being dramatic and discouraged; I want to say the biggest "thank you" to all the kind people who sent me encouragement and feedback, I love y'all so much!! :,D Sometimes I get psyched out by negative responses of any kind, but eventually I come back around and get excited about writing again. But yeah, thank you all!! <3
> 
> Well, at least one out of the three Mighty Nein almost-couples finally got their shit together and actually kissed. Not bad, but they can do better! Lmao ;D


	30. Part IIII: Chapter XXX: A Light in the Dark

****

**CHAPTER THIRTY**

****

**A LIGHT IN THE DARK**

Trent Ikithon’s office appeared to be empty. Jester held her breath as Fjord slid the forged key into the keyhole, ready to pull him back or bolt at any second, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Inside, they found the space clean, tidy, and disappointingly unremarkable. A cheerful fire crackled in a gilded fireplace. Tapestries of various lengths and colors depicted glorious battles, while portraits of elegant, well-dressed nobles and mages hung in mahogany frames. At the far end of the room, facing the door with the fireplace to the left and a particularly vibrant tapestry to the right, was a desk of polished, bronze-sheened wood stacked with neatly organized papers, books, inkwells, and pens. Beside the desk, closer to the fire, was an overstuffed armchair that looked like it had seen little use over many years.

“He’s gonna fuckin’ know.” Fjord’s voice was low and gravelly. Jester shot him a sideways glance. His golden eyes were narrowed, focused. He’d activated his Armor of Agathys, just in case; spikes of ice rising like a snowsnake’s fangs along the ridges and planes of his armor. “We touch any of that shit, or knock anythin’ outta place, and he’ll find us out so fast we won’t even make it to the front door.”

Jester frowned. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She was covered in cold sweat. Despite her many and varied attempts to lighten the mood, the seriousness of the situation sank into her, chilling her blood like an icy venom. “It’s okay, Fjord. We just have to be super, super extra careful not to move anything around or put anything back in the wrong place. We can do that, right?”

His silence was worth a thousand words. With a heavy sigh, he treaded carefully across the elegant purple and gold rug (Jester watched anxiously, waiting to attack it if it suddenly came alive) until he stood before Ikithon’s desk. 

Jester hung back a moment longer. She wedged a piece of folded paper under the door to keep it from closing. They couldn’t risk getting locked in here—that was the worst-case scenario, as far as Jester was concerned. Once she was sure the door wouldn’t move, she skipped to Fjord’s side. She put a hand on his shoulder, resting her chin on top of her hand, and peered down at the orderly stacks of papers and books on the desk. “Anything weird or totally incriminating? I mean, I know your magic is kind of shady, seeing as you worship an evil leviathan god or whatever, so you’d probably recognize something bad faster. Not that _you’re_ bad, or your magic is evil, or anything! But you do know more about that kind of thing, right, Fjord?”

Fjord shook his head. “I mean, yeah, but… nothin’ too out of the ordinary here. I’m pretty damn sure Ikithon wouldn’t keep anythin’ incriminatin’ in his main office.”

Jester tilted her head. She scanned the desk, looking for anything Fjord had missed. _Spell books, diplomatic documents, letters from big fancy Empire people, an official seal…_

 _Take it,_ a familiar voice whispered in her ear. _The seal, Jester. Take it._

Jester blinked. She straightened up, moving away from Fjord. Her eyes never left the seal. It was small, ornate, nothing too fancy, but the power it wielded made it fascinating beyond measure. _Why?_ She reached out to the Traveler in her mind. She didn’t expect an answer and was therefore not overly disappointed when none came.

Fjord put his hands on his knees and bent down to look at the spines of the books. “Unless one’a these is fake, or has notes in it, or anythin’ of that sort, I’d say we’re wastin’ our precious time.”

In a flash of inspiration, Jester grabbed Fjord’s arm, shaking it. “Fjord, _Fjord,_ I think I know what to do.”

“Okay, yeah, alright; calm down, Jes. What’s up?”

“Every evil mastermind wizard has a secret dungeon, right? Or like, a secret lab where they do all their dark and evil experiments and stuff. So maybe Ikithon has one of those! That’s probably where all his research and poisons and mind control spells are.”

“Maybe you’ve been readin’ too many fanciful stories, Jester,” Fjord said. Jester glared at him, and he sighed. “Assumin’ he does have a secret lab, it’s _secret_. We’re not even his apprentices, Jes, and I have a sneakin’ suspicious that Lyra doesn’t plan on talkin’ to either of us for a little while.”

Jester’s heart sank. “I still feel kinda bad about that.”

“We’re savin’ the world, remember?”

“Oh, right. Secret spies.”

He smiled. Her heart sped up, fingers tingling pleasantly. She wanted to grab his face and kiss him again, to run her fingers through his hair and revel in the way his laughter mixed with hers. 

Instead, she turned away and resumed searching the room. “Let’s look around and see if there’s any trapdoors or loose panels in the walls, or anything suspicious or something.”

“Yeah, alright. How ‘bout I keep lookin’ through these papers and books, and you check for secret passages?”

Jester couldn’t contain an excited squeak. “I’ve always wanted to find a secret passage!” 

“Then find it.”

Jester rolled her eyes at him. “Okay, okay, I’m doing it. Grumpy.” She pulled her hood over her horns, feeling marginally safer (and much more mysterious) as the travel-stiff fabric cast shadows across her face. Creeping away from the desk, she ran her hands over every inch of the wall. Finding nothing, she carefully pulled up the rug, holding her breath, ready to summon her Spiritual Weapon at a moment’s notice, and checked for trap doors. Again, nothing. Disappointed, she straightened up, opening her mouth to tell Fjord. And that’s when she noticed a faint black footprint on the polished floor in front of the fire.

“Shit, shit, shit, Fjord, I think I found something!” she hissed. Throwing herself across the room, she knelt by the footprint. She touched it, licking the grey powder off her fingers and swishing it around in her mouth. “Soot! Someone came out of this fireplace. They walked right out of it, Fjord, look!”

Fjord shot her a startled look. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m totally sure. I’m a spy _and_ an amazing detective, so I totally know what I’m doing.”

He frowned, eyebrows pinched together. He moved around the desk and joined her in front of the fire. “Oh, fuck, yeah. That does look like a bootprint.”

“Not big enough to be Ikithon’s, though.” Jester tilted her head, framing the sooty print between her linked thumbs and forefingers. “So maybe it was one of his apprentices! If he has a secret passage under the fireplace, maybe there’s other people who know about it and are involved in his research and experiments and stuff.”

“Yeah, seems likely. We gonna put out this fire, or what?”

Jester bit her lip. “I don’t know if we should do that. Caleb’s not here to start it up again, so unless you know how to do some kind of new fire spell or something, maybe we should just risk it.”

He stared at her, clearly incredulous. “You mean you wanna walk straight through a fuckin’ fire?”

She shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

“Worth a… are you fuckin’ crazy?”

“I mean, we’re already totally crazy for being in here. So, yes. But I can heal us once we’re through. Don’t be such a baby.” And then, bracing herself as if for battle, she stepped into the fire.

° ° °

The door turned out to be at the back of the fireplace rather than under it. Biting one fist to keep herself from screaming, Jester slammed her whole body against the back wall. It creaked, then swung open. She fell through it, barely catching herself before she fell down the stairway beyond.

Fjord followed her into the narrow passage. He gasped as the flames licked at his exposed skin, patting out the little fires starting on his leather armor. “Ow, fuck.”

She swatted at him until the fire went out. She ached all over from the heat (her resistance to cold, she’d found, made her somewhat sensitive to fire) but pushed down the pain until Fjord was no longer actively burning. “There.” She inhaled, coughing as smoke stuck in her lungs. “Okay, let’s just go down there as fast as we can and get back out before he comes back.”

“Lead on.” Fjord gestured down the hallway, wiping ashes off his face.

° ° ° 

Ikithon did in fact have a super-secret evil lair. The space was slightly larger than his office (not enormous, but adequate for trying out dangerous new spells and conducting illegal experiments, Jester presumed), and full of bookshelves full of old, musty books. There were several cages lined up along one wall (Jester wasn’t sure she wanted to know what those were for) and an alchemist’s enchanting table at the far end of the room. There was also a table covered in notes, papers, and scrolls. The smell of fresh ink and smoke lingered in the air.

“Well fuck me sideways.” Fjord stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, frowning deeply. “This isn’t shady at all.”

Jester crossed to the enchanting table. She bent over it, careful not to touch anything. “Come over and look at this thing,” she said. “And also let me heal you.” As he approached, she closed her eyes, calling on the Traveler to close the painful burns covering her arms and legs. Once the burns were gone, she cast mending on her singed dress. Fjord reached her and she did the same for him. He smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead. 

“Thank you kindly, Miss Lavorre.”

She giggled. “It’s totally my pleasure, Oskar.”

As always, he flushed at the nickname. He rubbed the back of his neck, expression falling back toward nervous anticipation. “Let’s take a look around. See if there’s anythin’ worth takin’.”

Jester turned back to the enchanting table. “I’ll take this table and the big bookshelf, and you can take the other table and the small bookshelf. Alright?”

“Alright.”

They searched in silence for what felt like an hour. Jester was acutely aware that the secret door in the fireplace was wide open; if Ikithon or his apprentices came back now, they were well and truly fucked. She was just about to call for a change of plan when…

“Found somethin’,” Fjord said. “Jester, come look at this.”

She threw herself across the room, scanning the note-strewn table for whatever had attracted his attention. He pointed to a packet of notes tied together with a golden ribbon, like a poorly bound book of aging scrolls and yellow paper. Scrawled across the cover in elegant but barely legible script were the words _Project Fatestone_.

“Oh my _gods,_ Fjord, that totally sounds like the name of some evil secret wizard plan!” Jester forgot to whisper for a moment as excitement overwhelmed her. Fjord shot her a startled look and she lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “But if we take it, Ikithon will find out, and then he’ll come after us, and—”

“We don’t have to take it.” Fjord reached for the folder. “We’ve just gotta look through it real fast to see if—” The instant Fjord touched the bound notes, he drew back with a sharp, pained sound. “Ow, fuck! Must have some sorta enchantment on it, or—” He swayed. Jester caught him before he fell, lowering him to the ground, calling his name.

“Oh no, Fjord, can you hear me?” Jester shook him, desperate, her heart in her throat. His eyes were glazed, unfocused. “Oh no, oh no, oh no!” She pressed both hands to his chest. Closing her eyes, she muttered a prayer to the Traveler. Fear so deep it was painful permeated her body. “Please, please, Traveler, heal him; I can’t lose him, _please._ ”

Fjord inhaled deeply. His eyes refocused, and he sat up, gasping and shaking. Jester moved in front of him. She put a hand on his cheek, stroking his hair. She looked deep into his eyes, checking for any lingering signs of illness or enchantment. “Fjord,” she said loudly. “Can you hear me? Say something!” She shook him.

Grimacing, he nodded. “Ahhh, yeah, I can hear you just fine, Jes. Could you please stop doin’ that?”

Jester laughed, hysterical with relief. “I thought you were _dying!_ ” She wiped at her eyes, taking a shuddering breath. “Why did you touch it? It was obviously going to be cursed, you should have—”

“I was just gonna take a look. Guess I shoulda been more careful.”

Jester fixed him with an incredulous glare. “You almost died, idiot. Don’t do that!”

“Said I’d try not to die.” Fjord pushed himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment, then caught himself on the table. “Never promised I wouldn’t.”

Jester stood up, too. “We have to be super careful not to actually touch it. Do you have a stick, or a spatula, or tongs or something?”

“Why on earth would I have any of those things?”

Jester huffed. Pulling off the brooch on her cloak, she used it to pull the bundle across the table. “There. See, you totally could have just waited for me to do that.”

“In my defense—”

“You don’t get a defense. That was so stupid, Fjord. You almost got killed.”

“Almost.”

Jester narrowed her eyes. “Just don’t ever do it again, okay?”

“Why would I ever do it again?”

“Oh my _gods_ , Fjord, focus!”

Fjord muttered something unintelligible. Shaking his head, he leaned on the table as Jester meticulously undid the ribbon with her brooch and flipped open the first page. 

Jester’s heart stopped. Carefully drawn in blue ink on the page was a strikingly familiar twelve-sided object. “It’s the dodecahedron! Holy shit, do you think that’s what Ikithon is looking for? Back in Zadash, all those mages who were going totally crazy trying to find it… maybe that’s what the war with Xhorhas is actually about!

“Holy fuck. If that’s true, then…”

They stared at each other. Jester saw her own horror reflected on his face. “Caleb,” she whispered. “He has the dodecahedron right now! And the guards in Zadash totally just murdered that Xhrohasian dark elf guy who had it; if they find Caleb, they’ll kill him!”

“We’ve gotta move fast. This is our best shot of bringin’ Ikithon to justice, so we’ve gotta take it with us, one way or another.”

“But he’ll know!” Jester’s heart pounded. “Oh no, oh no, what should we do?”

“Do you have any bandages?”

“Yes, why—?”

“We wrap it up. We trash this place, like someone came in lookin’ for something else. We rip up some of it, burn some things. That way they won’t know what’s missin’, and what’s ruined.”

“That’s a super good plan, actually.” Jester dug out the bandages from her medicine kit and handed them over. “Here. I’ll start destroying things. Try not to touch anything with your bare hands.”

“You, too. I’ve heard’ve magical items defending themselves if someone tries to destroy them. Be careful.”

Jester smiled. “Don’t worry, Fjord. I’ll be careful.” Warmth expanded in her chest, sliding through her blood. She inhaled deep, steeled herself, and got to work.

° ° °

They hid the bundle in the Bag of Holding Fjord had taken from the Sour Nest. There was a brief but intense whispered debate over the wisdom of this decision. It was settled when Fjord threw the bundle into the bag, successfully evading Jester’s attempts to snatch away both items. Feeling a bit irritated but relieved that no immediately disastrous effects had manifested, Jester led the way back up the passage and into Ikithon’s office. Before they passed through the fire, Jester cast Pass Without A Trace to cover their tracks. Just in case, Fjord used an excess wad of bandages to scrub the faint traces of soot off the hardwood.

“I say we head out as fast as possible. If we make it into the city before Ikithon realizes someone’s been in his lab, we should make it out of the city before he sends people after us.”

Jester stared, wide-eyed and incredulous. “No, _no_ , that’s a terrible idea! If we leave right now, he’ll know exactly who did it. We have to make it look like we were kidnapped or something.” She gasped, covering her mouth, as an idea occurred to her in a flash of inspiration. “Wait, what if we fake getting kidnapped by the people who burned all of Ikithon’s papers and books?”

Fjord raised an eyebrow. “That’s an idea. How would we pull that off?”

“We leave sooty footprints all over the room, then spray blood everywhere—don’t look at me like that, you big baby, I can heal us really fast afterward—and leave a threatening message for Ikithon from Xhorhas or something, demanding that he hand over the dodecahedron and all his research and everything!”

“That could work. But might I suggest we write a letter from Torrent, rather than Xhorhas? No point throwin’ more fuel on that particular fire.”

“Ohhhhhh yes, yes, that’s amazing, Fjord! Then Ikithon will go after the people going after Molly and the others, and totally forget about us.”

Fjord ran a hand through his hair. He looked apprehensive, but hopeful. “Alright, Jes. Let’s fuck shit up.”

Feeling extremely proud of herself, Jester grinned widely, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Fjord drew his sword, holding it out. She took it and sliced open her palm. It hurt—of course it did—but the adrenaline masked most of the pain. Dancing across the room, she dripped blood on the desk, the books, the elegant purple and gold rug. Crossing back to the door, she left a long, bloody streak of a handprint down the inside, giving the impression of resistance. Behind her, Fjord did the same. Red spattered everything, pooling on the hardwood, staining the armchair. As Jester attacked the door, Fjord ran his hands over the outer rim of the gilded fireplace. Wiping his bleeding palm on the armchair, he turned to Jester. She stood with her back to the door, watching him. He met her gaze, and the warm feeling in her chest bloomed again.

“It looks like someone _definitely_ got murdered in here,” she said triumphantly. “Now come here and I’ll heal you.”

Fjord approached. Jester healed her own hand, then held it out to him. He gingerly laid his injured hand in hers. It wasn’t until she’d washed away most of the blood and soot that she noticed the dark, necrotic-looking mark spreading from the tips of his fingers toward the center of his palm. She gasped, holding it up to the light, turning his fingers this way and that. “Oh _no,_ Fjord, look!”

His eyes went wide. “Ah, fuck. That’s where I touched that goddamn notebook, isn’t it.”

Jester’s heart paused. The warmth in her chest drained away, leaving behind a pit of panic. Her heart restarted, so fast with fear she could barely control her sudden shaking. “Oh no,” she whispered again. “This is so, so bad! We can’t just go tell someone we touched Ikithon’s cursed stuff! Fjord, what the fuck should we even _do?_ ”

“Get the fuck outta Dodge. Maybe there’s someone in the city we could go to—the Myriad, or anyone else who’s not a fan of the Empire—who could deal with somethin’ like this.”

“Hold still. I’m going to try and heal you one more time.” Jester folded his hand between both of hers, pulling him close. “Okay, maybe if you ask the Traveler really, really nicely, he’ll do even more healing than usual.”

Fjord closed his eyes, looking pained. “Alright. I dunno how this whole prayin’-to-a-trickster-god thing works, but I’m willin’ to give it a shot.”

Jester murmured a prayer, gripping Fjord’s clammy hand tight. Radiant light passed from her palms into his. She waited for a long moment before opening her eyes.

The blackness had spread. It reached Fjord’s wrist, sliding up his veins like dark snakes beneath his paling skin. Jester covered her mouth, eyes stinging, throat closing. “Oh no, oh no, I made it worse! Shit! Fuckballs! This is so bad, Fjord.”

“I know. I know, Jes. Just… we gotta keep our heads on straight.” He gripped her shoulders, pulling her against him. He rested his chin on top of her head. She buried her face in his shoulder, ignoring the way his armor (no longer covered in ice shards, thankfully) dug into her. “We get outta here first, then we figure out this situation.”

She nodded. Breaking the embrace, she wiped at her eyes. “Okay. But as soon as we’re out, the first thing we’re doing is finding a healer. Even if it’s dangerous, and we have to go to a cleric who might give us away.”

“Deal.” Fjord crossed to the door and slowly, carefully opened it. Stooping, he picked up the crumpled paper Jester had left as a doorstop. “Any of that blood still fresh?”

Jester nodded. “Over by the desk, I left a big pool.”

Fjord returned to the desk. Standing behind it, he unfolded the paper, crumpled and torn around the edges, and picked up a quill. He dipped it in blood and scrawled a message on the page, setting it on the center of the desk. “There. Nice’n convincing. Now let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Jester lingered by the fireplace for a moment longer. Fjord turned away, and she grabbed Ikithon’s seal off the desk. Fjord opened the door, and together they crept out into the empty hallway beyond.

° ° °

Sneaking out through a back passage, they found a couple of beggars willing to act as kidnappers to escort them out of the Academy through the front doors. “Look super shady,” Jester told them, and gave them an extra three gold for their acting skills. “Also, could you maybe hold our arms like you’re taking us to a fancy ball or something? I love balls. Do you love balls? I bet you totally would.”

Fjord shook his head, but she caught the little smile hiding at the corner of his mouth. They threw up their hoods, crept back into the Academy, and headed for the front door. Their escorts, dressed in stolen robes and armor, walked on either side of them like grim, silent shadows.

“Where’re you headed?” One of the guards standing outside the great wooden doors of the Academy stopped them with a sharp gesture. “Are you students?”

Jester nodded, less enthusiastically than she normally would. “Yes, we’re totally students here. We’re going on a field trip. These people are…” She paused, glancing at one of the beggars. As discussed, he shot her a sharp glare, tightening his grip on her arm. “They’re bodyguards. We’re going to do some research that’s kinda dangerous, so, y’know.”

Fjord nodded stiffly. “Better safe than sorry.”

The guard looked between them, eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, looking like he was going to ask more questions, then licked his lips and nodded. “Be careful, then. And make sure to check back in before nightfall. What’re your names, again?”

“Guinevere and Oskar. And our guards are Andrex and Mariva.”

“Right.” The guard gave them a short, sharp nod. He stepped aside to let them pass. “Carry on.”

As they made their way down the marble stairs and back into the streets of Rexxentrum, Jester felt Fjord leaning on her more and more. His breathing was fast, shallow; when she looked at him, his eyes had taken on the same glazed, distant look they’d had back in the lab. She grabbed his hand—the cursed one—and held it tight. He winced, and she let go with a sharp pang of concern. 

She paid the beggars, and they disappeared into the streets, leaving the stolen Crownsguard armor behind. Jester cut her palm and left a few more bloody spatters on the ground for effect. 

While she set the scene, Fjord sank down into a crouch with his back to the alley wall. He tilted his head back. Jester watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. Wiping her bloody palm on her skirt, she ran to him, kneeling in front of him. “Fjord.” She cupped his face in her un-injured hand. He closed his eyes, turning his head to brush his lips over her palm.

“Jes.” His voice was hoarse. He swallowed again. “Not feelin’ so hot here.”

“I know, I know, I know.” Panic reared its ugly head. “We’re going to find someone to heal you, okay, Fjord? You’re going to be totally fine, because I’m never, ever going to let anything bad happen to you.” 

He huffed a laugh. 

“Okay, nothing _that_ bad; don’t make fun of me. Just try to not pass out or die, okay?”

“I’ll try. No promises.”

“No. _No._ Pinky promise me.” She grabbed his hand, twining her pinky with his. “Say it, Fjord. Pinky promise you’re not going to die.”

He sighed. “Alright. I pinky promise I won’t die, Jes. Happy?”

Jester grabbed his shoulders and hauled him back to his feet. “Put your arm around my waist, okay? I can carry you, but it’ll be more suspicious, so let’s just walk like this as long as you can.”

He leaned against her. He slid his arm around her waist, and she felt another sharp stab of excitement before her brain caught back up with the situation. She put an arm around his shoulder, and they started down the alleyway at the fastest pace Fjord could manage.

° ° °

They’d gone a few blocks when Fjord collapsed. Jester held him up, wrapping her arms around him, and pulled him behind a stack of crates in a narrow, doorless alley. “Fjord,” she hissed. She tapped his face. No response. She shook him, hard. Nothing. With tears in her eyes and a sob building in her chest, she settled him against a crate and pulled out her healer’s kit, hands shaking. _Bandages, salves, splints…_ nothing useful. Furious with fear, she shoved it back into her haversack and threw herself over Fjord, wrapping her arms around his neck. His head lolled against her shoulder. “Fjord, please, I love you, I love you, I love you, you can’t die, _you can’t die_ …”

_He’s not dead. But he will be, unless you get him to a healer within three days._

Jester sat bolt upright. Wiping her eyes and sniffling, she looked around, eyes wide. “Traveler? I don’t know what to do! Tell me what to do.”

_I’m not here to tell you what to do. No situation has one solution._

“But what’s the best solution to this one?” 

_Think, Jester. Your spells. Which one would be useful right now?_

“I don’t know, I can’t think, I’m so scared.” Jester shook her head. Tears ran down her face. She didn’t bother wiping them away.

_You have a friend in this city, someone you can rely on. Don’t you?_

Jester covered her mouth with both hands as hope flared, painfully bright. “Rakasha! She said she was going underground, though. Is she even in the city?”

_There’s at least one way to find out._

“Okay,” she whispered. “Thank you, Traveler. I love you so, so much; you know that, right?”

A soft, bodiless chuckle. _Of course I do._

Jester took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and cast Sending. “ _Hi, Rakasha, this is Jester. Fjord is hurt really bad. We need help. I’ll take him to your house. Meet us there, okay?”_

There was a long, empty silence. And then, “ _Jester?”_

Another pause. Jester bit her lip, cursing her inability to respond. 

“ _I know a healer in the forest outside Rexxentrum who can help. I’ll send someone, okay?”_

“Okay.” Jester wiped her eyes. She sat next to Fjord, pulling him into her lap. She stroked his hair, fingers shaking. “Please come soon.”

Night closed in like an owl circling a mouse. Jester ducked her head and focused on Fjord’s shallow breathing. _Hold on, Fjord._ She raised his cursed hand to her lips and kissed his cold, paling skin. _Please, just hold on._

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Fjord woke up in a room full of pink light. He blinked and the world came into sharp focus. He was on his back in a surprisingly comfortable bed. The ceiling was pink. When he looked down, the comforter was pink, too, like cotton candy at a spring festival. Frowning, he tried to sit up, but in an instant Jester was there, hands on his shoulders, forcing him back down.

“Nooo, Fjord, you have to stay in bed for at least five more days. That’s what the healer said, and what I say, so that’s two clerics telling you what to do. You’re outvoted.”

Fjord stared at her. For a moment, his mind was blank, hovering on the brink of consciousness. Then he let out a shaky breath of relief. “Fuck. We made it?”

“You _barely_ did. You almost died, like, five whole times. We got away from the guards, and I don’t think Ikithon knows what happened because no one has tracked us down or anything, but you were still cursed, and I couldn’t figure out how to undo it. I was so stressed out, but Ashira, the cleric that Rakasha sent us to, saved you. She’s suuuper powerful. If we hadn’t found her, though, you would be super, super dead, Fjord.”

“Well, that’s comfortin’. Nothin’ like wakin’ up on what coulda been your deathbed.”

“The evidence we got is totally intact, and still in the Bag of Holding for now. I didn’t want to open it up without you, since that would be super disappointing after everything you did to get it in the first place.” Jester pressed both hands to his cheeks. “What I’m really saying, to make things short, is that everything is totally fine. As long as you haven’t forgotten everything that happened before the last week, that is.”

“Week?”

“You were out for a really long time. I bet you’re really, really hungry and thirsty.”

Fjord nodded. Slowly, carefully, and with Jester’s help, he propped himself up on the mound of frilly pink pillows. A sharp pain shot up his right arm. He swallowed a groan. “I am, Jes. But first I wanna assure you that I remember _everything_ that happened, and I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.” Fjord watched emotions play across Jester’s face, butterflies ducking and diving in a strong wind. Relief, happiness, anxiety. Fjord reached for her, and she took his hands, lacing their fingers together. “C’mere.”

She laughed a watery laugh and fell against him. He held her tight for a long, comfortable moment. Gripping her shoulders, he pushed her back just enough to look at her. “You know what this is, Jes?”

She frowned. Doubt flickered in her eyes. “No?”

He smiled. “This is our moment.” He slid a hand around to cup the back of her head, fingers threaded through her hair. 

“I love you,” Jester said. There was so much emotion in the three words, so much raw, open vulnerability. “I really, really love you. So much. You’re one of my favorite people ever.”

Fjord took one of her hands and raised it to his lips. He kissed the back of her hand, never breaking eye contact, holding the connection. “When we were gettin’ out of the Academy, when I was delirious and half-fuckin’-dead, I got to thinkin’ about how to match what you wrote, in that letter.” He paused. “And here’s the thing: I never thought I’d fall in love with someone. Not in a lasting way. Hells, I didn’t really know what love meant until I found you. I loved people, of course. Loved a lot of people. But that’s a different kind of love. Love for a mentor, a friend, a lover. You’re all of those things to me, Jes. You’ve taught me so much. You’ve been there for me, listened to me, genuinely cared about what I think and feel. And y’know what? That’s rare. You’re a rare fuckin’ gem, Jester.” He paused again, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I never thought of myself as the kind to settle down with anyone. I was scared of lovin’ you, of what that might mean for both of us. You didn’t know me. I thought you might not like what you saw, once you saw me for what I am. And the fact that nothin’ changed when I told you about the Pact, about Uk’otoa, about everythin’ I’ve done… that changed nothin’ for you, and everythin’ for me.” He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward and exposed under her soft, teary stare. “I love you. Best fuckin’ thing that coulda happened to me, meeting you. So here it is. Our moment. Now Jes, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I’d love it if you'd kiss me.”

Jester nodded. She wiped away her tears, laughing shakily. “Okay, Fjord,” she whispered. “I can do that.”

He sat up and she leaned down. They met halfway. He closed his eyes. The cruel, dark world fell away. Warmth exploded in his chest, and in the burst of light that followed, he felt wonderfully alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting the 30th chapter on the 30th feels poetic in some way. And, since the events of this chapter are a direct attack on Travis's fear of all things cursed/creepy/spooky, it also makes sense to post it the day before Halloween. >:D
> 
> WHICH REMINDS ME THAT TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN AND YA GIRL IS PSYCHED UP!!! Hope y'all have a fuckin' fantastic Halloween and Halloweekend. Wooooo! <3


	31. Part IIII: Chapter XXXI: Eye of the Storm

****

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE**

****

**EYE OF THE STORM**

The ceremony took place the morning after Yasha arrived. She stood, back stiff, chin up, as Ranu’s son approached. Behind her, Ranu sat on the raised throne, watchful eyes boring into the back of Yasha’s head. 

“It’s been a while.” Sashak smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he looked her up and down. “Maybe it’s just me, but it looks like your time in the Empire has softened you around the edges.” 

“I think it’s just you,” Yasha said.

Sashak’s smile melted like summer snow. He glared at her. “Doesn’t matter what you think. After this, I own you.”

“After this,” Yasha replied, “I’ll be your equal.”

Ranu’s favorite councilor approached, averting his eyes as he handed a ceremonial dagger to Sashak. Sashak took it without breaking eye contact with Yasha. He ran his fingers over the dull blade. Yasha’s own fingers itched.

Ranu rose to her feet with a huff. “Cut your palms and bind yourselves together.”

Sashak pressed the blade into his palm, leaving a long, bloody mark. He handed it to Yasha. She wiped it on her armguard before cutting into her own flesh. She held up her hand and blood drained down her wrist, dripping onto the dirt. Sashak pressed his palm to hers. They stayed still as the councilor pulled out a length of thread and wound it around their wrists, up their hands and around their fingers, physically and metaphorically chaining them to each other.

In another time, another life, Yasha remembered tying dandelion stems around clasped, desperate hands. Strands of white and golden hair woven together, wrapped around her fingers as she mingled her blood with Zuala’s. Zuala’s eyes were forget-me-not blue, radiant and flecked with gold. _“I’ll always remember this,”_ Zuala had said, and Yasha had laughed, breathless and incredulous, unable to believe that this beautiful person was hers, overwhelmed with love so deep it touched the place where pain lived inside her.

“Say the words,” Ranu commanded. “Sashak first, then his bride.”

Sashak sneered. “I promise to bind myself to this woman until death. Hers, or mine.”

Yasha met his hot gaze with a cold, steady glare. “I promise to bind myself to this man until death.”

_Zuala ducked her head, golden hair falling across her face, smiling with her whole body as Yasha promised her forever._

“His, or mine.” 

_It was raining, summer frogs shrieking in the distance, but neither one of them cared. Yasha laced their fingers together and Zuala leaned in to kiss her. The flowers in Zuala’s hair caught the rain, little petals shiny and shimmering. “Yours, or mine,” Yasha repeated, and held her wife close._

“Does the tribe bear witness?”

The assembled warriors murmured their agreement. 

“Do the gods bear witness?”

The high priest, half-hidden in shadows, nodded. “The gods bear witness.”

“Then the pact is sealed. The marriage is legal in the eyes of our laws, and those of the gods.”

Sashak surged forward and grabbed one of Yasha’s shoulders. He kissed her, forceful and possessive, and in that moment, Yasha seized his ceremonial knife. She forced it in to the hilt, dragging the blade through his guts from his navel to the V between his ribs. He squealed like a hog. She pushed him away, grabbed the front of his armor, and cut his throat to the bone. A gout of blood covered her face like warpaint. Snarling, lost to the feral beast living inside her, she whirled around and launched herself at Ranu.

Ranu staggered back with a shriek. She fell, clutching at the throne, eyes wide and fearful. It was in that moment that Yasha saw her for what she was: a snake with broken fangs, a puppet whose strings had been cut long ago. Yasha bared her teeth and pinned Ranu against the throne, hand in Ranu’s hair, knife at her throat. The rest of the world blurred and faded. “At least I have the dignity to admit I killed my husband,” Yasha said, and smashed Ranu’s head against the throne until Ranu’s skull split open and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Yasha felt the sting of arrows in her shoulder, her calf, her hip. She felt them, but they didn’t hurt. The fury in her blood kept her going. Turning away from Ranu’s twitching corpse, she leapt off the dais and let out a battlecry that shook the hall to its foundation. Raising the ceremonial knife, dripping with Sashak’s blood, she faced the tribe she’d once called her own. She scanned the crowd until she found Keyra’s face, pale and shocked as the rest. “Keyra, daughter of Ranu, I challenge you to face me on the battlefield for the honor of the slain. You thought you’d escaped justice. But I am here! Are you a coward, or a warrior of Xhorhas?”

Keyra snarled. The taunting sneer she’d worn earlier was gone. Her expression shifted to one of pure fury. She shoved her way out of the crowd and stalked up to Yasha, hand on her sheathless blade. “I will kill you, Orphan Maker. You know you can’t beat me. You never could.”

“Times change,” Yasha said. Despite the anger racing like poison through her blood, in that moment, she felt completely calm. Eye of the storm, last breath before the fall. “And so have I.”

° ° °

Keyra ordered that the battle lines be drawn a five minutes’ walk from the tribe’s village. Three burly warriors with drawn swords and spears escorted Yasha, who had been chained with her hands behind her back, through the scrublands and marsh. 

“Here.” Keyra stopped in the middle of a clearing surrounded on all sides by jagged rocks and thorn bushes. “This is where we trained as children.” She turned and glared at Yasha, one hand still clenched around the hilt of her mighty sword. “I always told you I’d kill you someday, Orphan Maker. This seems a fitting place.”

For the first time since killing Sashak, fear mingled with the fury burning in Yasha’s blood. _It’s been so long._ She watched Keyra’s muscles bulge as Ranu’s daughter drew a longsword in one fluid motion. _What if I can’t beat her?_ She swallowed hard. _It doesn’t matter. I have to try. For Zuala, and for the life we had._

One of Yasha’s warrior escorts unchained her wrists. She narrowed her eyes at him, rubbing the raw red patches on her pale skin. The other two brought her sword, laying it in her outstretched hands. Wrapping her hands around the hilt, she planted the tip in the dirt and waited. 

Onlookers surrounded the clearing. Many held weapons of various sorts, some keen and elegant, others bent and rusted. Yasha had the feeling they weren’t just there to watch. _I won’t run,_ she wanted to scream at them. _I’m not a coward._

Overhead, through the eternal half-light covering the lands west of the spreading darkness, lightning split the sky in two. Thunder rolled over the desolate landscape. Yasha bared her teeth. A vicious smile, wild and reckless and ready for war.

“As the leader of this tribe,” Keyra said, planting her sword in the dirt, mirroring Yasha across the clearing, “I command the challenger to face the challenged in fair and honorable combat. May the gods choose the true victor, whoever she may be.”

Yasha launched herself at Keyra. Her blade came down in an arc of silver. Sparks flew as Keyra met Yasha halfway, their swords sliding against each other until Yasha stumbled back, gritting her teeth as pain flared from the arrow wounds in her calf and shoulder. Keyra laughed, half-hysterical. “Giving up already?”

Yasha didn’t grace her with a verbal reply. Instead, she charged, slashing at Keyra’s unprotected flank. The tip of her blade left a narrow gash in Keyra’s hide armor. Keyra laughed again. “Missed.”

Yasha feinted left, then came straight down at Keyra’s head, hoping to split it in half. A flash of fear lit up Keyra’s face as she managed to duck at the last second. She came up breathless, snarling, swinging out with her own blade at Yasha’s momentarily undefended hip.

The pain was instant and blinding. Keyra’s blade sank through Yasha’s armor and into her flesh. Blood poured from the gash, running down her leg in a crimson river. Yasha stumbled back, letting out a furious shriek as pain turned her vision red, and pressed a hand to the gaping wound.

“Predictable. Always so fucking predictable.” Keyra circled like a wolf, eyes flashing fire. “I don’t know how you ever beat any of us. But it doesn’t matter now. The past is in the past. I’m going to kill you for what you did today, not for what happened twenty years ago.”

“You won’t kill me.” Yasha raised her hand to her face and smeared her own blood across her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her chin. She bared her teeth like a wild animal. “I’ll end your bloodline. For what you did not just to me, but to everyone who fell in love without your fucking permission.”

Keyra swung out and Yasha parried. The enormous swords met in a clash of steel sparks, the sound of metal on metal mingling with the distant rumble of thunder. Keyra dodged away, lifting her sword for another attack. “I wish I’d killed you, too,” Keyra panted. “I would’ve left you both unburied, rotting in that swamp, without anyone to mourn you.”

“I’ll leave you unburied.” Yasha swung to one side and then the other, whirling around and slashing down with reckless abandon. Her sword cut clean across Keyra’s chest from shoulder to hip, leaving Keyra’s armor hanging by its straps. “With no one left to mourn you.”

Keyra clutched at her rent armor. Blood trickled through her hand, dripping onto the thirsty earth. “Fuck you.” She clenched her jaw, muscles bulging in her neck.

Yasha saw her opportunity and took it. Charging in, she raised her sword for the final blow.

Keyra surged up and met her at the last moment. Twisting around, Keyra kicked her hard in the gut, shoving her to the ground. She planted her foot on Yasha’s chest, digging her heel into the arrow wound in Yasha’s shoulder. She lifted her sword, dangling the tip over Yasha’s heart. “You’ll leave this tribe the same way you entered it. Disgraced, honorless, with no one left who loves you.”

“Wrong, bitch!” 

Out of nowhere, a rock hit Keyra dead between the eyes. Keyra stumbled back, swearing creatively, clutching her forehead. Yasha pushed herself to her feet, breathing hard, heart pounding so fast she thought it might burst through her chest.

“Who the fuck threw that?” Keyra screamed. She whirled, eyes wild, scanning the watchful crowd. 

Beauregard launched herself over one of the rocks, landing in a crouch just inside the clearing. She straightened up, a long, gnarled stick in one hand and a rock in the other, and squared her shoulders. She jerked her chin at Yasha, then gestured at Keyra. “Hey, Yasha. Is this asshole bothering you?”

Through the rage, Yasha smiled. “Beau.”

Beau grinned. Blood and dirt caked her face, but under it, her expression was one of anticipation and determination. “I didn’t wanna interrupt, but you looked like you could use a little help. Not that I’m saying you need help, but—”

“Beau, look out!” Yasha cried out as Keyra whirled around and charged at Beau. Beau ducked her strike and dodged to one side, then surged forward and punched Keyra in the stomach. Keyra snarled in pain.

“Stop!” Ranu’s councilor—now Keyra’s, by default—yelled through the din. “There is no honor in this, Yasha Nydoorin. Two against one? It’s not a fair fight.”

Beau dodged a retributive strike from Keyra and rolled to Yasha’s side, regaining her feet, breathing hard but seemingly uninjured. She nudged Yasha in the ribs. “You good?”

“Better,” Yasha said softly, “now that you’re here.” Turning toward the councilor, she raised her voice, addressing the whole crowd. Her voice shook slightly, and she didn’t bother controlling it. “This isn’t about honor. It’s about vengeance. There isn’t any honor here. The fight is the fight. It’s not about _fair_ , it’s about who can fight the hardest for the longest. And who knows when to trust an ally, and when to run them through.”

“That’s fuckin’ right.” Beau pumped the air with one fist, shaking her improvised staff in the other. “Let’s fuck shit up, Yasha.”

The councilor’s protest was lost in the frenzied shouts of the onlookers. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

“See?” Yasha turned and smiled grimly at Beau. “They just want blood.”

Beau took a deep breath. She twirled her staff around her hand, passing it from one hand to the other behind her back. “Team Vengeance, baby.”

Yasha hefted her sword and prepared to charge. “Team Vengeance.”

Keyra let out a furious battlecry as Beau and Yasha charged her from either side. She swung at Beau’s chest; Beau dodged, laughing breathlessly. As she did, Yasha saw her chance and struck out at Keyra’s shoulder. Her blade carved through flesh and bone; Keyra screamed as blood spurted from the wound, painting her blade as it fell down in an arc, the weight suddenly too much for her half-severed arm to bear. 

“Ha!” Beau danced away, swinging her staff like a sword. “Gotcha, bitch!”

_The councilor’s right,_ Yasha thought as Keyra bowed under the force of two attackers. _It’s not a fair fight._ A grim, satisfied smile. _It’s exactly what she deserves._

It didn’t take long before Keyra fell to her knees. Beau danced in to punch her hard in the face, breaking her nose, and Keyra took one last feeble swing at her. Yasha crossed to stand before Keyra, tall and bloodied but fueled by the storm churning in her chest. Beau stepped back to give her space.

Overhead, the clouds broke. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled. As lightning slashed open the sky, Yasha unfurled her dark wings, donning her Necrotic Shroud as the rain soaked into her skin and ran down her spine. “Tonight,” she said, and her two-toned voice rose over the barren landscape of Xhorhas, “there is a storm in me that defies all mercy.” She raised the Magician’s Judge. Keyra glared up at her, furious, defiant. But under that shield of anger, Yasha saw the fear in her enemy’s eyes.

“Do it,” Keyra spit. “Coward.”

Yasha bared her teeth. “You could’ve let us go. You could’ve walked away. It would’ve been so easy.” The storm ran long fingers through her hair, over the little beads woven into her braids. _Zuala,_ Yasha thought. _This is for you._ She raised her greatsword high over her head. For a moment she stood there, cloaked in black as the storm raged around her. And then she brought the sword down in a flash of white-hot light. Lightning flashed along the blade and arced out in a brilliant, radiant beam. Before it was split in two, Keyra’s face twisted with terror. And then she was gone, fallen in the dirt, bleeding dark gouts of blood onto the dusty, hard-packed ground.

A cry went up from the onlookers. At first it was sound only, and then, through the screams and shouts, Yasha realized they were chanting her name.

Beau reached her at the same time as the tribe priest. 

“Y’know what’s sexier than honor?” Beau said, eyes fixed on Keyra’s cloven corpse. “Cheating.”

The priest frowned at Beau. He cleared his throat, turning to Yasha. “By default, and by the laws of our tribe and of our gods, you’re our leader now. Clearly, the gods have chosen you.” He bowed his head. His tone was resigned, his face twisted with disdain. “I’m here to serve you and the gods in whatever way you find fitting.”

Yasha barely heard him. She couldn’t look away from the body at her feet. Keyra’s eyes were half-closed, already clouding over, reflecting a storm in the faraway dimension of the dead. _Tonight,_ Yasha thought, and the voice in her head was that of distant thunder, _there is a storm in me that defies all mercy._

Beau shook her arm. Yasha snapped out of her trance, blinking back tears. She wiped her eyes, hands shaky, smearing blood across her already red-stained face.

“Dude, Yasha. What the fuck? Did you actually marry that guy? Is that why—?”

“My mate’s dead.” Yasha didn’t even try to sound upset. “I killed him and Ranu. They’re all dead. So I’m their leader by law, now.”

Beau stared at her with a mixture of shock and horror. “Whoa, shit. Do you _want_ to be their leader, or…?”

Yasha didn’t reply. She turned to the priest. “I’m going to visit my wife’s grave,” she said. “I’ll be back by sundown tomorrow.” She glanced up, rain falling on her face and running like tears down her cheeks. “Not that you can tell time here.” She offered the priest the faintest hint of a humorless smile. “I’ll be back when I fucking feel like it. Until then, you’re in charge.”

The priest began to protest, but Yasha turned and walked away. Beau followed close behind, poking her in the arm, a worried expression on her face. “Yasha, you’re bleeding. Like, a lot. From a lot of places. You sure you don’t wanna, I dunno, _rest_ for a few seconds?”

Yasha shook her head. She felt numb as the anger drained away, leaving a hollow emptiness in its place. Her matted hair stuck to her neck, falling into her face. Behind her, her wings faded into the backdrop of the storm. 

Beau rolled her eyes. “Okay, but you’re definitely gonna pass out at some point once the adrenaline wears off. And fair warning: I am _not_ Jester, and I _cannot_ carry you if you go unconscious.”

“I understand.” Yasha stopped on the edge of the village. She took a deep breath, staring out over the marshlands and rocky, lifeless wastes. “You can come, if you want. To visit her.”

Beau blinked. She wiped dirt and blood off her face, grimacing. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean, if that’s okay. I wouldn’t wanna like, intrude on any private emotional moments or anything.”

“I want you to see it.” Yasha swallowed hard. She couldn’t explain why, but for some reason it was important to share this moment with Beau. “I have so many flowers, Beau. Maybe you can help me find places for them all.”

Beau wiped her nose, her eyes. She ducked her head. Yasha could tell she was crying, even if she was doing her best to hide it. “Cool,” Beau said, choked and croaky. “I’d love to, Yasha.”

Yasha smiled just enough to make her split lip hurt. “I’ll show you,” she said, and started out across the swamp toward the distant shape of a little, half-rotten hut.

° ° °

Yasha stood at the head of Zuala’s grave. It was marked by a simple grey stone, the last thing she could remember doing before waking up at the alter of the Storm Lord. Holding out her hands, she let the flowers fall, still-vibrant petals scattering across the bare earth. “You never knew how many flowers there are in the world,” Yasha whispered. “I wish I could’ve taken you with me over the mountains. We could’ve gotten away. But I…” She stopped, throat closing. Behind her, she felt Beau’s presence like a fire on a winter’s night. “I hope this is enough. That you understand how much I love you, and how much I’ll always love you.” Kneeling, she placed the last flowers, a bundle of blue forget-me-nots, on top of the headstone. Bowing her head, she kissed the cold stone. When she pulled back, her tears had gathered in the petals like dewdrops at dawn. They slid down the stems and evaporated on the rock.

Yasha straightened up. Instinctively, she reached for Beau. Beau took her hand and held it tight. For once, Beau didn’t say anything to break the tension, allowing the silence to pass, unmoving except for their breathing and the distant croaking of frogs.

“Thank you.” Yasha’s voice was barely audible even to her own ears. “For having my back.”

Beau shrugged. Yasha felt her discomfort like a tangible thing. “No problem. Glad I could, y’know. Help you out in your time of need.”

“Beau,” Yasha said. “I’m sorry for pushing you away.”

“I get it. I do it, too.” Beau squeezed her hand. “She was wrong, y’know. Keyra. You’ve got tons of people who love you.”

Yasha squeezed back. “I know. But thank you for saying it.”

There was another long silence. Unlike the first, this one was soft, peaceful. Yasha smiled. She turned back to Zuala’s grave. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. You did good by her. I didn’t know her, but I think she’d love them, Yasha.”

Yasha looked up, past Zuala’s grave, to the distant light of the sun dipping behind the Ashkeeper peaks. As she turned away, back toward the village, a weight lifted from her chest. A weight she’d been carrying for so long she couldn’t remember living without it. Maybe she’d always carried it inside her, a pain deeper than anything, a pit that refused to be filled.

As they made their way back toward the village, Yasha turned one last time to look at Zuala’s grave. It was a splash of color in the drab dullness, bright petals catching the last light of the setting sun. Yasha exhaled darkness and breathed light. The flowers would wilt, but their seeds would sink into the earth, and for many springs to come, there would be life there: a sanctuary of beauty untouched by time.

“You ready to go?”

Yasha turned to Beau. She smiled—her first real smile in a long, long time. “Yeah,” she said. “I think I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's NaNoWriMo season bitches!! Time to write me another fuckin' novel full of chaotic disaster gays. My favorite! :)
> 
> As always, the biggest warmest "Thank You" to everyone supporting this story!! I appreciate you all so very, very much :,) <3 <3 <3


	32. Part IIII: Chapter XXXII: Under a Star-Strewn Sky

****

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO**

****

**UNDER A STAR-STREWN SKY**

The night after leaving Felderwin, Nott took first watch. She sat on a flat rock just outside the warm ring of firelight, looking east, back toward the little village they’d left behind. Through the sparse trees, faint lanternlight twinkled in the distance. Pulling her crossbow into her lap, she loaded and unloaded it, restless and anxious. Her chest was tight with emotion—fear, grief, and the sharpest sliver of hope.

“I meant to ask earlier, about your family.” She heard Caleb approaching, and wasn’t startled by his quiet voice. “Is it alright for me to join you?”

Nott scooted over, and Caleb sat beside her on the rock. He put a tentative hand on her arm. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t see them face to face.”

Nott shrugged off the dull pain rising in her chest. “It’s not the worst way it could’ve gone. I didn’t want them to see _this_ face, anyway.”

Caleb tugged at the corner of her hood. Reluctantly, she turned to look at him. He was frowning, eyebrows pinched together, an unreadable look in his eyes. “Nott. There is no version of you that your family would not love, I think.” Before she could protest (and she very much intended to), he shook his head and continued. “The man who you married, and your son—”

“Yeza and Luc.”

“ _Ja,_ Yeza and Luc. I don’t think they would abandon you because you have changed the way you look.”

“I’m a monster.”

She felt Caleb stiffen. He turned away, a cold, unreadable look in his eyes. “Anyone who has told you that is wrong. Yourself included.”

Nott gestured to herself. “But look! Look at these!” She bared sharp, broken teeth. “Look at all of this!”

Caleb clenched his hands into fists and pressed his forehead to his knuckles, bowing his head as if in pain. “Nott. You are not a monster. Someone did this to you, and it can be undone.”

Nott’s heart stopped. And then it started beating again, harder and faster than it had in a long time. She grasped his sleeve, suddenly desperate, and shook him. “Caleb! What do you mean, it can be undone? What did Eodwulf tell you? Caleb?”

Caleb lifted his head. He glanced at her, then back at the ground. His expression was tight. Pained. “There are some mages who could undo the effects, but they serve the Empire, and most have sworn their allegiance to the Cerberus Assembly.” He sighed. “Even at the height of my power, I could never have constructed a counterspell for something of this caliber. There are some who can. But Nott, is it worth falling into the hands of the Empire—to be in their debt—to change this?”

Nott stared at him for a long moment. “What are you saying, Caleb? Because it sounds to me like you’re saying I should make decisions based on your biases. Yes, one man did terrible, terrible things! That doesn’t make the whole Empire evil.”

Caleb stood up suddenly. He clenched his fists, turning away. “I can’t make these decisions for you, but I can promise you that, should you make a deal with these people, it will eventually turn around and bite you in the ass.”

“Good! Fine! As long as it’s a halfling ass, and not a goblin one.” Nott’s heart leapt with anger. She glared at Caleb’s back. “I’m going for a walk. You said you’d take the next watch, so here. Take it.” 

She didn’t wait for his response. Spinning around, cloak swirling like ebony wings, she started across the grassy clearing. As she left the camp behind, she swore she heard soft footsteps behind her in the undergrowth, but when she turned, the path was empty. Tugging her hood down over her face and tucking her crossbow under her cloak, she slipped into the shadows slinking between sparse trees.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Caleb couldn’t sleep. Guilt gnawed at him, a hungry beast with razor claws. Tyffial took the third watch, and Caleb considered going after Nott, but given her uncanny knack for going unseen, he decided it would be a hopeless pursuit. Lying on his sleeping roll staring at the stars, he wrapped his arms around himself, listening to the distant croaking of summer frogs. 

A few feet away, Mollymauk snarled in Infernal. Caleb sat bolt upright, adrenaline shooting through his chest, and stared at Molly. Molly was curled on his side, knees pulled up to his chest, wrapped in his ridiculous coat with one hand on the hilt of his silver scimitar and the other tucked under his cheek. Caleb sat perfectly still for a long moment, then, deciding that Molly had simply been dreaming, he let out his breath and began to lie down again.

Molly’s hand clenched around the scimitar’s hilt. He tilted his head back, eyes still closed, and let out a long, low hiss. He murmured something in Infernal, sharp and vicious, edged with fear. Caleb was trying to decide whether it was worth risking impalement to wake him up when Molly said his name.

“Caleb… _Kahlehv… Ahshahk’ahrahsh, vehrahkai ahk’ehsh…_ ”

Caleb picked up a small pebble and tossed it at Molly’s horn. It bounced off with a soft _thud._

In an instant, Molly was on his feet. He looked around wildly, still holding his scimitar, panic flaring in his eyes. His tail lashed the way Frumpkin’s did when the cat was in distress. It took a long moment for his eyes to focus on Caleb. The traces of whatever had been haunting his dreams faded in the firelight; he dropped the sword and crouched on his sleeping roll, breathing hard and pressing both hands to his face.

Caleb held out a hand, palm up, in a placating gesture. He approached Molly as he would a wounded beast, slowly, and without any sudden movements. “Mollymauk. Are you alright?”

Molly ran his hands through his hair, inhaling sharply. He looked up, and before Molly regained his usual calm, Caleb caught a flash of soul-deep dread in his eyes. “I… it’s fine, Caleb. I’m _fine._ ” He stood up abruptly. Caleb retracted his hand, his chest tightening with some unnamable emotion. Molly turned away. “I’m going for a walk. Just need to…” he gestured vaguely. “Fresh air.”

Caleb watched him walk away. For a moment he considered letting him go. But then he thought about Nott, and how he’d let her leave without even a word of protest. He wasn’t on watch now. He didn’t have an excuse. Pushing himself to his feet with a sigh, he gave up on sleep and followed Molly toward the outskirts of the thinning forest. He caught up just before Molly disappeared into the shadows, calling Molly’s name to stop him before he vanished into the stifling dark.

Molly stopped at the forest’s edge, where silver light fell between gathering clouds, moonbeams dancing on lavender skin. He sighed, glancing back at Caleb over his shoulder. In the faint moonlight trickling like silver raindrops between branches of oak and birch, his eyes glowed like embers. “Of all people, I thought you’d understand the need for solitude.”

Caleb’s heart beat faster. He thought about walking away. “I didn’t realize you wished to be alone, Mollymauk. If that is the case, I will go.”

Molly blinked. He looked away, ducked his head, and sighed again. “No, no. You’re right. Being alone is…” He made a vague, sweeping gesture. 

“Hell?” Caleb supplied, and Molly laughed. 

“Well, I suppose it’s my hell.” Molly tilted his head back. Moonlight caught on his horns, jewelry glinting and swaying like windchimes in the warm breeze. “You seem to enjoy it.”

Caleb’s throat tightened, and he looked at the ground, at mud-stained boots aged by time and travel. “I didn’t always want to be alone.”

Molly turned around, trapping Caleb in his stare. “There was someone, wasn’t there? At the Academy.”

Caleb’s heart paused, then restarted at three times its usual rate. He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly bone dry. He wanted to look up but couldn’t find the courage. “Her name was— _is_ —Astrid. She came from the same village I did. As did Eodwulf.”

“Back then they called you Bren.”

“ _Ja,_ that was my name. Bren Aldric Ermundrud.”

Molly laughed. “Well. Not quite as ridiculous as mine, but close.”

Caleb half-smiled. A tiny bit of the shame and fear in his chest disintegrated. “When we were interrogating him, Eodwulf told me he and Astrid were engaged. I wonder now if she ever loved me, or if it was just another game for her. Another chance to prove her power, her superiority.”

Molly’s laughter died. “She would be stupid not to.” Under the light, flirty tone was an undercurrent of spite. “Love you, that is.”

Caleb’s heart stopped again. He blinked rapidly, hoping that Molly couldn’t see the flush rising in his skin, and knowing that he could. He silently cursed tieflings’ darkvision. “Well.” He tried unsuccessfully to hide the tremor in his voice. “She was not stupid. She was brilliant. A brilliant, dangerous woman.”

Molly took a step toward him. One more step, and they’d be touching. “Is that what you like, Mister Caleb? Brilliant and dangerous?”

“I like many things, Mister Mollymauk. Danger is not one of them.”

Molly blinked. He took a step back, turned around, and started off into the forest again. He gestured for Caleb to follow. “C’mon. I wanna show you something.”

Pushing down the strange grief clouding his mind, Caleb followed Molly as he danced through patches of moonlight scattered like silver leaves between ancient trees.

° ° °

The clearing was small, scattered with clumps of grass and smooth rocks raising timid heads above the moist earth. Through it ran a creek, thread-thin from the lack of summer rain, burbling a quiet, cheerful song. Beside the creek, standing on the largest rock with his back to Caleb, was Mollymauk. 

Caleb approached cautiously. He still didn’t know what to expect. As open as Mollymauk could be, he wore his secrets proudly. A self-proclaimed liar, bullshitter extraordinaire, conman with a silver tongue. Caleb stopped beside the rock, calculating how close he’d have to stand to Molly if he climbed up to join him.

“Don’t worry, Caleb. I don’t bite.” Molly looked down at him, fangs bared in a smile that contradicted his words. He knelt and held out a hand—the one with the snake tattoo, blood-red eye flashing in the light of a waning moon. Caleb took it. Molly pulled him up, struggling a bit, and patted him on the shoulder. “There we are. Plenty of room for the both of us.”

There really wasn’t. Caleb stood on the edge of the four-foot drop, apprehension clawing at his insides. He cleared his throat. “Ah, Mollymauk, why are we out here?”

Molly shrugged. He tilted his head back, watching the rising moon. The sky was clear, speckled with stars. “You know, Caleb, bad decisions don’t make a bad person.”

Caleb blinked. His chest ached again; he picked at his fraying scarf, frowning deeply. “I wasn’t aware we would be talking about me.”

Their shoulders touched as Molly swept a hand across the sky. “Isn’t it beautiful? All of this, it’s amazing.”

“The stars?”

“ _Life._ Being alive. Do you ever think about all the things that had to line up for us to even exist?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

Molly sighed. “Do you still think you’re an unlucky person, Caleb?”

Caleb closed his eyes, and for a moment he was on his knees in the cobbled streets of Rexxentrum, clawing at his chest as he struggled to extract the charm that was keeping him alive. Mollymauk was counting. Thirteen truths, thirteen lies. A flash of Trent Ikithon’s face, of his voice, and suddenly… 

_“Mahvrehk’ahsh,”_ Caleb whispered. 

Beside him, Molly startled. Caleb opened his eyes, and found Molly staring at him with a look that was half shock, half confusion. “What was that?”

“In my vision. In Rexxentrum, when I… when I _broke_ , I saw Ikithon in my head. That is what he called me. _Mahvrehk’ahsh._ ”

Molly stiffened. Despite the hot, humid air, Caleb saw him shiver. When he spoke again, his voice was a low hiss. “ _Lover._ That’s what it means in Infernal.” Molly seemed to wrestle with himself for a long moment. “It’s possessive. Degrading. More along the lines of ‘whore’ than ‘beloved’.”

Overhead, a wisp of cloud passed over the moon, throwing the clearing into darkness. The moonlight faded, obscuring Molly’s expression. Caleb ducked his head, fighting a wave of sickness that threatened to overwhelm him. He clenched his fists and breathed through his nose until the feeling passed. “Mollymauk. You said that the past doesn’t matter to you.”

Molly was silent. Caleb glanced at him and found him looking at the moon, watching the thin clouds slink away into the night. “So you’ve been seeing things,” Molly said. “Memories.” _My memories_ goes unspoken.

“I am sorry. I meant to tell you, but—”

“But you were scared I’d hate you?” Molly smiled humorlessly. “I knew. I’ve been seeing things, too. Not just Lucien’s memories.” He shook his head. “You know, I won’t say it’s not your fault, what happened at the Academy. You won’t believe me anyway, and it’s not entirely true. And if I’m being completely honest—and I rarely am—I’d say that the only way to make right your wrongs would be to kill Trent Ikithon and bury him deep.”

“My parents were not the only ones to die that day.” Caleb’s eyes burned, fire in his skin, blood boiling in his veins. “I have not gone by the name they gave me in many years.”

Molly pressed his shoulder to Caleb’s. Caleb couldn’t tell if Molly was shaking, or if he himself was. Perhaps it was both. “It’s funny. We both named ourselves, didn’t we?”

“That’s… yes, that’s true.”

“We’re always dying, Caleb. Lucien’s dead. Bren’s dead, too. We’re not those people anymore.”

“There are sins I have committed, things that cannot go unpunished. We cannot just run from our pasts.”

Molly laughed, high and hysterical. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past three years?”

Caleb didn’t reply. He had no idea what to say, throat tight, words melting like snowflakes on his tongue. “I have often wondered if the world would be a better place without people like me. Cowards. Criminals.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Murderers.”

Molly grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. Caleb blinked, too stunned to pull away, as Molly cupped his face in both hands. Caleb caught a glimpse of the sky spreading overhead, freckled with blinking stars, distant fires burning for a billion years. “Caleb. _Caleb._ Don’t ever think that. Never fucking think that.” Caleb flinched at the venom in Molly’s voice. Molly’s hand slid down to cup Caleb’s jaw, thumb resting over his pulse point. Caleb’s heart pounded, and he knew Molly could feel it. “You think you don’t matter? That you’d be better dead? That’s bullshit. That is _total bullshit_. Because here’s the thing: if one star burns out, the constellations change.”

Caleb closed his eyes. There was nowhere to look, to turn so that Molly couldn’t see the expression of raw grief growing on his face. He wrapped his fingers around Molly’s wrists, and for a moment he couldn’t decide whether to hold him close or push him away. 

Molly’s hands lingered for a heartbeat, then fell away. Caleb exhaled. Molly looked back at the sky. There was a long, heavy silence.

“You said you wanted to learn Infernal. Is that still true?”

“ _Ja._ I’ve been studying the grammar, and the phonetics of the language, but the semantics and pragmatics escape me.”

“I understood basically none of that. But I can teach you the spoken language, if you want. Might end up sounding like you’re from the less-savory end of Rexxentrum, but that can’t be helped.”

Caleb laughed. He ducked his head, capturing the end of his scarf in a clenched fist, running his fingers over the fraying threads. “I am not a picky man, Mollymauk. If you’re willing to teach me, I’m willing to learn.”

“I don’t know any fancy terminology, and I sure as fuck don’t know how to teach the bloody mechanics, but you’re a smart man, and you’ll figure that part out on your own. The way I see it, languages aren’t like history or alchemy; you can’t learn them and say ‘that’s it, that’s all there is to know’. Languages aren’t dead. They’re always changing, like lizards shedding their skins. Every couple of centuries, every Infernal speaker has to relearn everything, because the tieflings up here and the tieflings in the Hells can’t fucking understand each other anymore. So we shed the skin, accept the change, and move on.” 

“You told me before that the dialect you speak is different from Jester’s. How so?”

Molly shrugged. “It’s a sound thing. That’s why we speak Common with different accents. My dialect’s more to the front of the mouth. Hers is…” He paused, waving a hand, searching for the right word, “…more to the sides. I don’t know, I can’t describe it.”

“That’s alright.” Caleb wanted to pull out a scrap of paper and write this down. Perfect memory or not, the academic in him had awakened, mind sharpening and focus narrowing. He longed for a fresh pen and a length of good paper. “I think I know what you mean.”

Molly shot him a crooked smile. “Well, I’m glad one of us does.” He tilted his head. One of the strings of jewels hanging from his horn caught on the gilded tip, hanging at an angle. It might have bothered Caleb if the rest of Molly’s garb wasn’t already so asymmetrical. “Okay, how about this,” Molly said. “You stay here with me for a little while, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about Infernal.”

Caleb ducked his head to hide a triumphant smile. “That sounds fair, _ja._ ” He paused, thinking. Planning his next words. “Do you know any other languages, apart from Infernal and Common?”

Molly laughed, throwing his head back, jewelry flashing in the waning moonlight. “Just enough of each to proposition or piss off everyone in Exandria.”

“That sounds about right.”

“What else do you want to know, _Mahthrahvahsh?_ ”

Caleb froze. “What was that word? What does it mean?”

Molly shrugged. Caleb wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a rare flash of embarrassment on Molly’s face. “No real translation. Not a good one, anyway. There’s a lot of words like that.”

“Tell me your favorite word.”

Molly raised an eyebrow. Caleb could tell he hadn’t expected that question. “Well…” Caleb felt a faint draft as Molly’s tail flicked past his legs. “There’s a story behind it. Words without contexts, never a good thing.”

Caleb nodded. “I like stories, Mister Mollymauk.”

“Oh, really? I never would’ve guessed.” The dry humor peeked through the false-curious tone. Caleb nudged him in the ribs—not a shove, like Beau would’ve done, but enough to startle a laugh out of Molly. Caleb smiled again, soft and secret. 

“Well, I don’t remember where I learned this. It’s all bits and pieces, but I remember hearing a story about where tieflings came from. Might be a myth, probably a legend, but interesting nonetheless.” Molly looked up at the stars. The moonlight coated his face like a second skin, lighting silver fires in blood-red eyes. “In the Hells, there’re no stars. Just stretches of hot, choking gases, and snowstorms that never end. But the tieflings that lived there mostly lived in Nessus, the Ninth Hell, where Asmodeus holds court, and in Nessus, there’s a point of fire that never stops burning, hanging in the poisonous sky over his palace. There’s a name for it, something close to _sun._ ” Molly paused. Caleb watched him watch the sky, careful not to be caught staring. Molly, however, seemed suddenly far away, lost in memories rising like bubbles through blood. “So they had a sun, but no stars. No moon. You can imagine their surprise when they began finding their way to the surface. The sun moved, storms came and went, and they realized they didn’t have enough words for things.” 

Caleb looked away, down at the creek. The cheerful water reflected the fading crescent moon, bleeding silver. “That must have been hard, emerging in a strange place without words to describe it.”

Molly was silent for a long moment. “It was. But they adjusted, and even though most of the other races gave them shit, chased them out, cursed them and hunted them and called them monsters, they survived. Glad they did, because if they hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a somewhat self-deprecating smile. “Most of them settled. Some went feral, disappearing into the wilds. But the ones who stayed, they found new words for this world. _Vahk’ahsh-kahrai,_ ‘half-born’, for children of tieflings and other races. _Dahmehrahk’ai-k’ahshahk’ehm,_ ‘song water’, to describe a gentle spring rain. There’re so many words like that, enough to fill up all of your books and then some.”

Caleb looked at Molly. Molly glanced at him and smiled, bright and brilliant. “They found names for everything,” Molly said. “There was bickering, I’m sure, because no one wanted to agree on anything, but they worked it out.”

Caleb shook his head. “I know how that is.”

Molly grinned. “Don’t we all?” He looked away, back up toward the stars and the setting moon. “You asked me for my favorite word _. Vehrahk’ash-kahvehrahk’ai._ ” The strange, guttural sounds would’ve been terrifying if not for the softness of his voice. “I like that one. There’s a story there.”

Caleb rolled the sounds around in his mouth, tasting them, committing them to memory. “What does it mean?”

“ _Moon._ Well, that’s the indirect translation. Directly translated, it means ‘midnight sun _’._ Like I said, there’s no moon in the Hells. They didn’t know what else to call it.”

“It’s poetic, I think.” Caleb pulled his coat closer around himself. It wasn’t cold, but the weight was familiar, comforting. His heart was still pounding, although not as hard as before. There was a long silence. “You said there’s a story there. Would you like to tell it?”

“Would you like to hear it?”

“I wouldn’t have brought it up if I did not.”

“That’s fair. Story goes, the midnight sun is the home of a goddess who watches over the world. She keeps fiends away, strikes down sinners, the whole nine yards. But someday, just like the tieflings that crawled out of the Hells, an army of devils will rise up and wage war on all Exandria. And when they do, they’ll ‘ _walk under a cloak of darkness’_ —not my words— _'and the midnight sun will choke on the shadows like fumes’_.”

Caleb sucked in a sharp breath. His hands shook. He rode a wave of panic that threatened to drown him. “This story, where did you learn it?”

Molly went perfectly still. “I don’t know. I can’t remember not knowing it.”

Caleb shivered. The warm summer breeze felt suddenly cold. The urge to run reared its ugly head; he turned away, staring down into the stream. The moon bled, blurring into a smear of silver that washed away downstream. “Have you ever thought that maybe there is some truth to legends, Mister Mollymauk?”

“Of course. Legends are just big truths wrapped in little lies.”

“The darkness in the east, do you think—?”

“Maybe. Fuck’s sake, anything’s possible. Three months ago I knew fuck-all about my past, and now…”

“Now,” Caleb said, fighting the desperation clawing up his throat, “we are running out of time.” 

“Maybe.” Molly’s tone was neutral, betraying nothing. “But look! I still see the stars.” He spread his arms, head tilted back, eyes closed as he basked in the moonlight. “The darkness hasn’t got us yet.”

Warmth, sudden and unexpected, rushed through Caleb’s blood. Impulsively, he reached out a shaking hand to unwind the string of jewels tangled around Molly’s horn. Molly’s horns were rough to the touch. He ran his fingers over the grooves, tracing them to the gold-gilded tip. He held his breath as Molly’s eyes opened. 

Molly smiled winningly. “Don’t stop,” he said. 

Heat rose like flames under Caleb’s skin. “I… it was tangled.”

Molly held his stare. Caleb began to turn away, but before he could, Molly caught his wrist in a soft but firm grip. “Caleb,” Molly said. 

Reluctantly, Caleb looked back at him. “It’s late; we should go back before the others start worrying.” Nott, he knew, would be furious to find him gone. Furious, and terrified. 

Molly opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head. “I was dreaming about you.”

Caleb’s heart picked up its tempo, throwing itself with reckless abandon against his ribs. “I heard you say my name, _ja._ ”

Molly’s grip tightened. “It was a memory. _Your_ memory, Caleb.”

Caleb pulled away. He took a step back, toward the edge of the rock. “I don’t want to know. But I… I’m sorry that you have to see those things. That part of me is something I’ve done my best to keep hidden, but this… I cannot hide forever.”

“No,” said Molly. “You can’t, can you?”

Molly was watching him. Caleb wondered if this was how bugs felt in a collector’s case, pinned down, facing up, dusty wings frozen behind them. “I want to change the past,” Caleb said. “The dodecahedron—the Fatestone—it can bend reality to my will. I can save my parents.”

Molly’s expression was unreadable. “ _Can_ isn’t the same as _should_.”

Anger flared. The same anger he’d felt when he’d fought with Nott. He took a deep breath and set his shoulders. “It isn’t your decision.”

Caleb saw his own anger reflected in Molly’s eyes. “Fuck you,” Molly snarled. “I might not exist if you do that, so yes, it’s my decision. I should at the very least get a fucking say.”

Just as quickly as it appeared, Caleb’s anger faded. He shook, knees weak, hands tingling, palms sweaty. He stumbled and nearly fell. Molly reached out to steady him, but he ducked away, mumbling a Zemnian curse. 

“Caleb, wait—”

Caleb ignored him. Turning, he knelt down, found a handhold, and swung his legs over the edge of the rock and onto solid ground. He crossed the clearing in three strides. Just before he stepped back into the shadows under the trees, Molly called his name again, louder, and with an edge of panic. Caleb stopped, but didn’t turn around. He exhaled long and slow through gritted teeth. “Our conversation is over. I am done with it.”

“No, Caleb, I—” There was a soft hiss of feathers cutting through humid air. Caleb turned in time to watch Molly fall to his knees on the rock, silhouetted against the setting moon, one hand wrapped around an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Molly threw back his head as a second arrow sank into his stomach, piercing his thin white shirt, still covered in bloodstains from the fight with Eodwulf. For a moment he knelt, swaying. And then he fell backwards into the stream.

Caleb stood frozen, staring in horror at the place where Molly had disappeared. His self-preservation instincts kicked in and he ducked behind a tree, breathing hard. Fire flared in his palm. Clenching his jaw and steeling his nerves, he crept around the edge of the clearing, sticking to the shadows.

Molly lay in the stream, coat spread around him, wreathed in silver and red. In the dim light, Caleb couldn’t tell if Molly’s eyes were open or closed. He ducked down, preparing to approach, when a black-cloaked figure emerged from the forest across the clearing. Caleb held his breath. The cloaked figure knelt beside Molly. Caleb clenched his fists, flames dancing at his fingertips. If he could be sure he wouldn’t hit Molly, if he knew he could control the blast… _if, if, if_.

The cloaked figure snapped off the arrows sticking out of Molly’s body. Molly didn’t react. The figure’s head turned, and under the hood, Caleb caught a flash of bright grey eyes. They passed over his hiding spot, lingered, and then blinked out. The figure straightened and took a step back. Caleb was about to send a firebolt at them when two more cloaked figures emerged into the clearing. They approached Molly and lifted him between them, jostling him carelessly. If Molly was conscious, Caleb thought, he would’ve reacted. Blood Hunter or not, that had to hurt.

The first figure whispered something in a language Caleb didn’t understand. _Elvish_ , he thought, but with the burbling of the stream and the sighing of the wind, he couldn’t be sure. The two figures holding Molly headed back toward the woods. The first lingered by the stream, silent and unmoving. And then he turned and looked right at Caleb.

Caleb’s mouth went dry. The fire in his palms flickered as his concentration broke. Standing up, he lifted his right hand and sent three scorching rays at the hooded figure. The fire burst from his fingers, soaring through the air. The figure raised one hand and twisted. The flames fizzled, smoking, and died. Ashes fell onto dew-wet grass. The figure paused, shook his head, and then turned and slipped away into the trees.

° ° °

By the time Caleb made it back to camp, panting and clutching a knife-sharp ache in his side, the others were gone. He stood staring at the stamped-out fire for a long moment before he heard Nott hiss his name. He didn’t hear her approach; when she grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the woods, he startled, nearly crying out.

“Caleb, _Caleb,_ come on! There are people hunting us. We have to hide, _now!_ ”

Caleb let himself be dragged into a stand of tall oaks. He was numb with shock, limbs cold, breath coming short and fast.

“We’re in the trees. Hiding in the trees.” Nott’s voice shook. She pushed him toward the thickest oak in the copse, and he reluctantly climbed up as far as he could go. His arms shook, on the verge of giving out. Tyffial pulled him the rest of the way up. He collapsed, panting, on a massive, flat, curving branch. Nott crawled up next to him, grasping a handful of his coat in one small hand. She shook him gently. “Caleb, where’s Molly?”

Caleb looked up. He blinked. In the fading moonlight, he could just make out Tyffial’s stony expression, Cree’s slit-pupiled, pain-glazed eyes. “I…” His voice wavered and he couldn’t think, couldn’t think of anything but dark blood running in silver waters. 

Nott grabbed his face, claws biting into his cheeks. “Where is he, Caleb?” 

“They shot him,” Caleb whispered. “In a clearing, they found him, and they took him.”

Cree hissed, long and low. Tyffial swore softly. “Zoran Kluthidol. Has to be. Fucking traitor. I’ll kill him.”

The world swayed. Caleb closed his eyes, clinging to the branch, and pressed his forehead to the sweat-damp bandages wrapped around his forearms. “We have to find him.” He felt far away, out of his body. Like his voice belonged to someone else. “Mollymauk. They’ll kill him.”

Tyffial laughed, dark and humorless. “Oh no, they won’t. Not until they’re good and ready. If Zoran’s got him, there’s no point in prayer. The gods could never stop that man. Not even the ones he claims to worship.”

At her words, a cold calm came over Caleb. He sat up. Below him, the ground swam, thick with shadows. Overhead, oak leaves parted, revealing a silver crescent. “Good thing I am not a god,” he said. His hand slipped down to clutch his satchel. Under his fingers, the dodecahedron shifted, slightly warm to the touch. Pressed against his side, the Book of the Damned sat like a lead-heavy weight. “I’m going after him. It doesn’t matter what gods Torrent worships. They will burn all the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me jumping from fluff to angst in the same scene: PARKOUR!
> 
> I now understand the raw power that Chris Carter must have felt writing the scene in the X-Files where Mulder and Scully almost kiss, and then ruining it by having one of them almost die. That scene pissed me off so much at the time, but now, looking back on it as someone who also writes romance-y stuff, I Completely Understand The Narrative Need For Angst. Before they can kiss, they MUST SUFFER. Sorry, I don't make the rules! >:D


	33. Part IIII: Chapter XXXIII: Of Love and War

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**CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE**

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**OF LOVE AND WAR**

Beau stood by Yasha’s side, looking out over the ruins of a once-noble city. A throne sat on a dais raised over a mountain of rubble. Pillars like bleached bones lay strewn on an ancient battlefield. Darkness hovered, thick and choking, around a once-beautiful civilization.

“This was the capital of the Kryn Dynasty’s lands.” Yasha’s voice was carried away by the wailing winds. “There must be survivors. We have to find them.”

Beau blinked as the wind whipped sand into her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she wiped at them with her wrapped forearms. Yasha turned away, but Beau kept walking, past corpses with ashy grey skin and open eyes. She ascended the rubble and stood on the dais. “Is this her?” Beau jerked her head toward the body seated on the throne, skewered by a gleaming longsword. Whoever had killed this drow woman had left her propped up in a cruel imitation of life, the sword’s blade passing through her chest and into her throne, holding her up even as her head lolled and her jaw hung slack.

Yasha glanced back. Beau watched emotions play across her face: sadness, disgust, anger. “Yes” she said. The wind picked up her hair and tossed it, white and black swirling like stormclouds over warm water. “That’s Empress Leylas Kryn.” 

Beau closed the Empress’s bright blue eyes. She swallowed, planting her staff, and wondered if she should say some words. She didn’t know the customs or traditions of the Kryn, however, so instead she muttered, “Sorry, man,” and followed Yasha back through the smoking city and out onto the barren plains.

° ° °

They found the survivors sheltering in small villages on the outskirts of the city, where a few buildings still stood. As Yasha gathered her warriors and set out in search of supplies, Beau set to the slightly less dangerous and slightly more delicate task of finding out what had happened.

An elderly drow woman whose silver eyes seemed unnaturally bright in her time-worn face pulled Beau aside as she helped a group of frightened children into a cracking stone hall. “It was them,” the woman said. Her voice was steady, her grip strong. “The devils and their followers. Traitors. Followers of the Betrayer Gods, unleashing war on Exandria again. I was there, the last time this happened. I’m afraid I won’t see the end of it, though. They’re stronger, more organized. This time, they have the fires of Nine Hells behind them, and the darkness of a thousand moonless nights.”

Beau stopped her. “Whoa, whoa, wait. Hold up. You’re saying these, what, _devil worshippers_ are trying to start another holy war? What the fuck?”

The drow woman leaned in, grabbing Beau’s hand and pulling her close. In a husky, desperate whisper, she said, “They’re looking for it. Bensozia’s Book. And the Fatestone—the last Fatestone.” She leaned back, turning Beau’s hand over and patting it. She sighed. “It’s only a matter of time, now. Only a matter of time.”

Before Beau could stop her, the old woman turned and disappeared into the surging throng of survivors. “Hey! Wait, I wasn’t… hey!” No response. Beau groaned. “Fuck this,” she muttered, but kept going, herding terrified survivors from one shelter to another until everyone had a roof over their head. Once everything had settled down a bit, she asked around about the Book and the Fatestone, but no one else seemed to know anything. Frustrated and discouraged, she kept watch outside until Yasha and her warriors returned.

° ° °

“The city is completely destroyed.” Yasha stood beside Beau as summer rain fell on the parched earth. In the Kryn lands, the rain fell harder, sharper, borne on frigid winds blowing in from the Greying Wildlands. Yasha didn’t seem to mind, though, and Beau didn’t want to appear weak, so she squared her shoulders and kept her chin up, standing her ground.

“Talked to an old lady,” Beau said. “She told me the people who destroyed this place are devils and devil worshippers, religious fanatics who want to bring back the glory days of the Betrayer Gods.” She smiled humorlessly. “And that’s not even the best part. Turns out these fuckers are looking for two very specific items: The Book of the Damned, and something called a _Fatestone._ ”

Yasha inhaled sharply. “Oh, no. We have to stop them before they get to the Empire. Caleb has that book.”

In a moment of terrible clarity, Beau realized: “He’s got the Fatestone, too. _Fuck._ ”

Yasha shot her a confused look. And then her eyes widened, and she whispered, “The dodecahedron.”

“Fuck, fuck, shitballs, _fuck_.”

Yasha set her jaw. “This isn’t enough. My tribe, our allies, the survivors here… we won’t be enough to take on the Army of the Damned.”

“Yeah, you’re totally right, and I just wanna start out by saying that so you don’t think I’m leading you on. But think about it: you said the war between the Empire and the Kryn is just a distraction from the real threat. Is it possible that the dodecahedron—Fatestone, whatever—was stolen from the Kryn Dynasty and taken to Zadash _on purpose?_ So that the Cerberus Assembly could get their hands on it, and—”

“The woman who kidnapped Molly. Narayah Veltov. She was a mage at the Academy, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah. Oh, fuck, you’re right.” Beau took a deep breath, pressing one fist to her mouth. She exhaled, long and slow. “Shit. Okay. So at one point, a member of the Cerberus Assembly had that book. I have no idea why, but whoever brought the Fatestone to Zadash could’ve been trying to compete the set. Then we got in the way, and shit went totally off the rails.” She crossed her arms, feeling somewhat smug. “Good for us.”

“Yeah,” Yasha said. “Good for us.” Her voice was as hollow as her eyes. She stared out at the eastern horizon, where a wall of impenetrable dark cast shadows on the earth. “We can’t stop this army of devils before they get to the Empire, but we can get to the Empire before they can.”

Beau lifted an eyebrow. “Wait, what? Hold on, Yasha, you don’t actually wanna drag a hoard of Xhorhasian warriors—who, by the way, hate and are hated by the Empire—into Wildemount, do you? That’s fuckin’ crazy. Like, batshit crazy, man.”

“I saw something several months ago. During a storm, I had a vision.” Yasha’s voice sunk to a whisper. She ducked her head, gripping the hilt of her greatsword, leaning on it until the tip sank into the rain-soaked earth. “I saw a battlefield covered in bodies, swords sticking out of the ground. An unburied graveyard, Beau. And in the distance, giant worms crawling out of the earth. I could feel it. I could smell the death, and I was all alone.”

Beau grabbed her hand. “Yeah, well, prophecies can suck a dick. Who gives a fuck about what _might_ happen?”

“I do.” Yasha inhaled shakily. “So I can make sure it never does.”

The tightness in Beau’s chest loosened. “That’s the fuckin’ spirit. So what’s the plan, Empress Nydoorin?”

Yasha shook her head. “I’m not an empress just because an empress died.”

“Maybe not. But I’m making you an empress now. So shut up and accept your new title with dignity.”

Yasha smiled at her. Beau’s heart hurt. She felt suddenly overwhelmed, close to tears, furious and filled with an untamable storm of emotion. She maneuvered herself around in front of Yasha, still holding her hand, and slung her other arm around Yasha’s shoulder. Yasha’s eyes widened, but she didn’t step away. 

“Hi,” Beau said.

“Hi.”

“I’ve got a question, y’know, I’ve been meaning to ask for a while. But you’re always off signing treaties and fighting bad guys, so it’s been kinda tough to get you alone.”

Yasha’s smile softened. “Yeah, well. It’s hard work, you know. Being an empress and all.”

Beau laughed. She leaned in until she could see the streaks of dark and light in Yasha’s two-tone eyes. Their bodies were pressed together now. Beau paused, waiting for Yasha to pull away, but she didn’t. “You wanna hear my question, or what?”

“You’ve built it up so much, I’d hate to walk away now.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’m wondering if, as your second-in-command, I’m allowed to, y’know. Show a little more affection than the average grunt.”

Yasha raised an eyebrow. There was a dull _thud_ as her greatsword fell in the mud. Both of her strong hands, adorned with the rings of the defeated rulers of lesser tribes, gripped Beau’s shoulders. “Of course you are,” she said.

Beau kissed her. Yasha made a small, startled sound, and then she wrapped an arm around Beau’s waist and swept her off her feet. Beau yelped, then laughed. Yasha picked Beau up, turned her around, and pressed her up against the cracked wall of the nearest building. Beau groaned. She threw her head back, both hands fisted in Yasha’s hair, and thought about nothing but the hot press of Yasha’s fingers on her bare skin. “Yash… Yasha… someone’s gonna see us.”

Yasha straightened up. She frowned, tilting her head, confusion written across her face. “It’s raining. The survivors are all scared and tired, and there’s no reason for them to come out here.”

_There’s no reason for us to be out here, either_ , Beau thought as an especially large raindrop hit her directly in the eye. She blinked it away and banished the thought. She shrugged. “Y’know what, I don’t give a fuck. It’s the end of the world, baby. Let’s make the best of it.”

Yasha pinned her against the wall. Beau gripped Yasha’s arms, hands shaking, and panted as Yasha kissed her jaw, her throat, all the way down her stomach and between her thighs. “Fuck. Ah, fuck, _Yasha…_ ”

Yasha’s head came up, fixing Beau with an intense stare. “You’ll tell me,” she said, “if I’m doing anything wrong.”

“Fuck,” Beau choked out. “You could throw me through this goddamn wall and I’d thank you.”

“Beau.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll tell you, _fuck._ ”

Yasha smiled. She hoisted Beau up the wall until Beau was no longer standing on solid ground. Yasha kissed her, soft and then hard, before moving back down. Beau threw her head back, ignoring the jolt of pain as her head collided with rough stone, and gasped out a string of curses—as long and creative as possible—as she lost herself in sensation, the hot burn of desire so desperate it was almost painful.

° ° °

An hour later, sitting together under a deerskin tarp clutching mugs of watery ale they’d scavenged from a broken-down brewery, Beau leaned against Yasha until they were touching from shoulder to hip. “Hey, Yasha?”

“What is it, Beau?”

“Is this a good place to say ‘I love you?’”

Yasha turned and stared at her, looking for all the world like a startled hare in an open field. “I—”

“You don’t have to say it back. Whatever. I just want you to know.”

Yasha’s smile was like the sun breaking through stormclouds, so bright and beautiful Beau wanted to cry. “I know,” she said. “I’ve known for a long time.”

Beau’s chest constricted. She shoved Yasha hard in the shoulder. “What, that’s it? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“Of course,” Yasha continued, stoic as always, “it’s easier to know when someone is in love with you when you love them, too.”

Relief flooded every inch of Beau’s body like a drug. “Ahhhh, gods, fuck. I totally thought you were just gonna leave me hangin’. Which is one-hundred percent fine, if that’s actually how you feel; I mean, I’ve got lots of experience with being someone’s second choice, and I get it if I’ll never mean the same thing to you as—”

Yasha turned and put a hand on Beau’s shoulder, the other on her cheek. “I do love you, Beau. It’s taken me a while, but I’m in a place where that’s okay now. I couldn’t, before. But I avenged Zuala, and it’s time for me to start living again. I loved her, and I love you. You came second, but you’ll never be my second choice.”

“Actually,” Beau said with a devilish grin born of euphoric relief, “I came first.”

Yasha sighed, rolling her eyes. Beau watched a smile flit across her face like a little bird, dipping and diving before slipping away. “I just remembered,” she said, with an air of surprise. “You owe me five gold.”

Beau stared at her, incredulous and confused in equal measure. “What?” 

“For holding you through the show.”

Beau threw back her head and laughed. Yasha joined in. Beau threw an arm around Yasha’s shoulders and pressed her face against Yasha’s chest. They laughed until they couldn’t breathe, gasping and falling against each other. Beau ended up on her back, draped across Yasha’s lap with her head resting on Yasha’s thigh. She smiled up at Yasha, and Yasha smiled back. Beau reached up and stroked Yasha’s face, tracing her strong jaw down the lines of her throat, over her chest and arms. “Man. I got so fuckin’ lucky.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck.” 

“Yeah, I don’t. But until I have a better explanation for this—” Beau made a broad, sweeping gesture between them, “—then it’ll have to do.”

Yasha scooted Beau off her lap. Beau was about to complain, but then Yasha stretched out beside her on the sleeping rolls, turning so they were face to face. Beau threw an arm over Yasha’s waist, pulling her close. “Y’know,” Beau said, “I think your plan is crazy. And stupid. Stupid crazy. But—” she held up a finger like a threat, “—I believe in you a crazy stupid amount, so I’m gonna go along with it.”

Yasha didn’t respond. Beau felt tension coil in her stomach; for a moment, she thought she’d said the wrong thing. But then Yasha nodded. “We’ll need to get the Empire to sign a treaty.”

“We’ll need to get the Xhorhasians to sign a treaty.”

“That too.”

“That’s gonna be a lotta work, Yasha.”

“Compared to what we’ve already done?”

“That was mostly you, let’s be real.”

Yasha sighed. “I couldn’t’ve done it without you, Beau. Every empress needs…”

“Another empress?” Beau supplied, which had the intended effect of making Yasha laugh. Beau grinned. “How about this. We see if we can wrangle up a few more roaming tribes, get together the biggest army we can, and then head to the Ashkeeper peaks with a tiny partof that army to ask for an audience with High King Bertrand.” Beau gestured from herself to Yasha. “Just us, and a small company of personal guards. Just so we look legit.”

Yasha frowned. For a long moment, Beau thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she said, “That’s a good plan, but we have to work fast. That darkness isn’t slowing down, and neither are the creatures who created it. If they could level a city this powerful in a matter of weeks, then everybody in Wildemount is in danger.”

“Yeah, I know. So we do our recruiting thing, you beat up some more tribe leaders and take their thrones, then we head directly to the Ashkeepers with as many Xhorhasians and Kyrn warriors as possible. Not all the conquered tribes will come, but we can still try.”

“Okay.” Yasha exhaled, closing her eyes. When they opened again, they were clearer, brighter. “I love you, Beau. And I trust you.”

Beau’s whole chest felt like the heart of a newborn star. She leaned in and kissed Yasha, slow and sensual. “Love you, too. I’d trust you with my life. Probably would’ve the first time we met, though, so I dunno if that’s saying a lot.”

Yasha smiled against Beau’s lips. “I think that says even more.”

They lay together for a long time, listening to the rain falling listlessly against the tarp, until two of Yasha’s warriors came to relieve them of their watch, and they fell into a deep sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did it. The useless lesbians finally did it, and even though I Made Them Do It, I'm so proud of them.


	34. Part IIII: Chapter XXXIV: The Book and the Blade

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**CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR**

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**THE BOOK AND THE BLADE**

White filled Molly’s vision. White feathers in his mouth, in his throat, chest seizing as he struggled to breathe past burning light. He wanted to move, but his body was frozen. Shapes floated on the edge of his vision, creatures with narrowed eyes and sharp fangs. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed, if this was a dream, or the waking world. At first, there was only numbness. Then pain blossomed in his shoulder, spreading down to his navel, and he let out an involuntary hiss.

“Lucien Damakos. Can you hear me?”

Someone snapped their fingers in front of Molly’s face, and just like that, he could move again. Gasping, he fell forward, crouching with both hands splayed and tail thrashing as he regained his balance. He blinked away the whiteness hovering behind his eyes. The world came into focus.

Molly was in a cell roughly the size of a circus animal’s cage. There was no furniture, no windows, only the faint outline of a hidden door. The walls were smooth and flat, featureless. Nothing to break the monotony of piercing, blinding white. In front of him, standing with crossed arms and an unreadable expression, was an elven man dressed in white armor with red stains—some faded, some fresh—dripping down the front.

Molly snarled, regaining his feet. He staggered back, bracing himself against the far wall as the wounds in his shoulder and stomach erupted with pain. Panting, shaking, he glared at his captor, baring his teeth in a wild, vicious smile. “Let me guess. You’re Zoran Kluthidol.”

Zoran Kluthidol nodded. “That’s one of my names.”

“And Lucien is one of mine. _Was_ one of mine.” He gestured to his body. “I’m Mollymauk Tealeaf now. Let’s get that straight before anything else happens.”

Zoran pulled out a jagged, opaque blade. It was roughly the length of his forearm with a silver hilt and a cruelly curving tip. “This,” he said, “is the Fateblade. Torrent’s been using it for generations to conduct rituals and sacrifices.” He held it up. In the light of a single torch mounted over the door, the blade glinted down its length. “If you die on the end of this blade, your soul belongs to Asmodeus.” Zoran smiled. “For all eternity.”

Molly’s heart beat so hard he knew Zoran could hear it. His head spun. His limbs were heavy. When he looked down, his shirt was more red than white. He pressed a hand to his face, took a deep breath, and swallowed the sickness rising in his throat. “So you’re back with Torrent. Sorry if I’m not entirely sure why that’s significant, but I’m still missing some vital memories. Making sense of all this is becoming a full-time job.”

Zoran raised his eyebrows. The firelight licked his pale skin, gleaming in silver eyes. His hair fell in a dark curtain around his shoulders, contrasting with the white and red of his armor. “After you died,” Zoran said, “I spent a year as a torturer for the Myriad.”

“That’s what Cree tells me.”

“Cree? She’s still alive?”

“Tyffial and Cree were with me. Back in the woods where you shot me.”

“That makes sense.” Zoran pursed his lips, looking contemplative. “And the man you were with in the clearing?”

Molly’s heart stopped and then restarted, painfully fast and hard. He offered Zoran a cutting smile, hiding behind spite and feigned ignorance. “I was alone, wasn’t I?”

Zoran gave him a look so icy it could have frozen lava. “A human caster sent balls of fire at me when my men came to take you away.”

 _Fuck._ “I don’t know a man like that.” Molly bared his teeth in the barest approximation of a grin. “Not exactly a fan of casters, after some of my past experiences.”

Zoran snorted. “That’s a fair point. What actually happened to Veltov? We—Torrent, that is—found her bleeding and burned to a crisp in the middle of a bunker in the Far North. I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume that was you.”

Molly spread his hands. “What can I say? Apparently you can teach a new dog old tricks.”

“Did she ever succeed?”

“At what? Half the time I didn’t even know what she wanted. The other half I was basically in a waking coma.”

“Bensozia’s Book.” Zoran’s eyes narrowed. “She wanted you to translate it.”

Molly hid his reaction as well as he could. Raising his eyebrows, he shrugged. “I can’t read. Not well enough to be helpful.”

“And what happened to the book after you killed Veltov?”

“Lost it in the snow. Or, well, Otis did. Somewhere outside the compound where Veltov was keeping me. In fact, it was Otis who turned everyone in that place into corpses. He found the Book, and then he lost it.”

Molly watched Zoran’s face for any sign of disbelief. However, Zoran remained completely, terrifyingly unreadable. 

“If you’ve brought me here to ask questions, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I don’t know anything about anything. And to be honest, I think it’s better that way.”

Zoran sighed. Then, before Molly knew what was happening, the room went dark. At first he thought it was a Darkness spell, until he felt blood running like tears down his face. He yelped as, for the first time, he experienced his own blood curse first-hand. It only lasted a few seconds, but by the time he shook it off, Zoran had shoved him to his knees and slipped a fine chain around his neck. As Molly’s vision came back, he grasped at the silver chain, trying to pull it off. It tightened like a noose, every attempt making it tighter. Gasping, shaking, he ducked his head, wiping blood out of his eyes, trying to control the panic gnawing at him like a hungry beast.

“Don’t try to remove it. It’ll kill you.”

Molly gingerly touched the chain. “What the fuck is it, you sick bastard?”

“Siphon of Asmodeus. You gave it to me, actually, when you first came to join us, fresh from your vacation in the Hells.” Zoran laughed humorlessly. He sighed again. “Torrent was a whole other beast, back then. We’ve gotten better, since. Changed our morals around a bit.”

“You still worship Asmodeus,” Molly spat. His whole body hurt. He wanted to drink a bottle of whiskey, curl up in a ball (in Yasha’s lap, preferably) and sleep for at least a week. He lifted his head, glaring up at Zoran. “As long as that’s true, you’re the fucking enemy.”

Zoran sighed. “I’m sorry about all the things that happened to you. Losing all your companions in the Hells must’ve been hard.”

“Fuck you.”

“But Lucien was a different person, you said. You’re Mollymauk Tealeaf. None of those tragedies belong to you.”

“No. But I remember them.”

“What a strange person you must be. Half killer, half conman. Raised in the Hells, Bensozia’s favorite, twice dead.”

Molly grinned. The chain pressed against his throat, hot as a brand. “What can this dead man do for you?”

“Back in the day? So many things. Now? Who knows. Depends on how much you remember, and what you’re willing to share.”

“What do you want me to share?”

“Where’s the Book?”

“I told you.”

“And the Fatestone?”

Molly tilted his head, playing stupid. “Sorry darling, I’ve got no idea what that is.”

There was a flash of metal as Zoran pulled out a fine copper chain. He draped it around his own neck, fastening it. Immediately, Molly’s body went cold. Something tugged at his memory; instinctively, he braced himself. Zoran smiled, raising the Fateblade and pressing the tip to his own palm. “You were never a good liar, Lucien.” He pressed down. Blood beaded around the dagger’s point.

Molly startled as pain blossomed in his hand, blood dripping down his wrist, off his fingers and onto white stone.

And suddenly, he understood.

“Neat trick, isn’t it.” Zoran wiped his hand on his armor, adding to the dark stains. With the blood cleaned away, he revealed his palm, scar-less and smooth. “Yours, I’m afraid, won’t heal as fast.”

The world spun. Molly closed his eyes, clenching his jaw, and pressed his not-injured hand to the wall to keep himself from falling sideways. He wanted to stand up, to face Zoran on his level. Unfortunately, he was already having a hard time staying vertical on his knees.

“I know one of you has that fucking book. It’s too valuable a bargaining chip to throw away.” Zoran ran the blade down his forearm. A gash appeared in Molly’s skin, gushing red. 

“Fuck, ow, _fuck._ ” Molly clamped a hand over the wound. He pulled his coat around himself, trying to hide how much he was shaking. In the monotonous whiteness, the flash of bright symbols on rich red fabric was like a playful insult. “Then why aren’t I using it to strike a bargain?”

“Tyffial has it. Or Cree.”

“You thought Otis had it, didn’t you? That’s why you murdered him.”

“ _Murdered_ is a strong word. We talked. We disagreed. We fought, and I won.”

“Otis had it for all of three minutes before losing it. Not exactly the brightest candle in the chandelier.”

Zoran huffed. “First true thing you’ve said all evening.”

“Evening?”

“You’ve been out for almost a full day. Got a cleric to look at you; she said you should be lucid long enough for me to get what I want.”

“And what do you want? Other than the Book and the Fatestone?” Molly hid a shudder of pain. “Let me guess, this is the part where you beg for me to come back to Torrent. _We’ve changed, it’s better now,_ and all that bloody bullshit.”

Zoran stared at him for a long moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “You poor naïve bastard. Torrent wants you and your traitor friends for one reason: to cut your throats and watch you bleed.”

For a moment, Molly’s confident expression wavered. He hadn’t been counting on that. All of his cards were on the table now. He’d shown his hand, and what a lousy hand it was.

“Why did you do it?” Zoran traced bloody patterns in his own flesh. The cuts transferred to Molly, crisscrossing old scars and new wounds. Molly clenched his jaw, not wanting to give Zoran the satisfaction of seeing his pain. “The ritual. What was the purpose?”

Molly blinked. Blood coated his skin, slick and hot. He could barely think through the constant, aching pain. “I have no idea.” This time, it wasn’t a lie. Whatever had occurred before and during the ritual remained hidden. Like it or not, the cracks in his memory were filling back in. But that night, and whatever had led up to it, was lost to him. He wasn’t sure if this was good or bad. Right now, it was probably bad. _There’s nothing like being at the mercy of a trained torturer who’s keeping you alive for information you don’t have,_ he thought, swallowing a pained hiss.

Zoran’s frown said he believed it. “I was afraid of that. That’s how you lost your memory, wasn’t it?”

“Veltov did that.”

Zoran laughed again, loud and raucous. “Oh, no she didn’t. Veltov never had that kind of power. The ritual drove her crazy before she could get past the first few lines. Don’t know how she completed it, but she did. By the end, she couldn’t even speak Common, shrieking in Infernal, totally batshit mad.

“But you missed that part. You were too busy lying in the forest, cold and dead. Or so we thought. By the time the rest of us had buried you and decided where to go from there, Veltov had disappeared, taking the Book with her. At the time, I don’t think any of us understood just how powerful that fucking book is. If we had, we certainly wouldn’t have let a half-insane member of the Cerberus Assembly walk away with it.”

Molly wiped his face on his sleeve. The fabric came away coated in sweat and blood. “So what? How did I lose my goddamn mind, then? What the fuck happened in between the ritual and me waking up buried in the fucking ground?”

“No idea. In fact, conducting the ritual destroyed the ritual itself. Those pages are gone. Ashes, swallowed up by the spell. The only part of the Book of Bensozia that’s ever been destroyed.” Zoran cocked an eyebrow, smiling grimly. “If you believe the stories, that is.”

Molly sat perfectly still, processing this. If the original ritual had been destroyed, it made sense that Torrent was looking for him. Whatever spell or curse he’d been a part of nearly three years ago, it must have been extremely powerful. Powerful enough to kill him, wipe his memories, and take away all but the most instinctual knowledge of his abilities. And it was likely that, after all Lucien’s careful planning and a lifetime of preparation, the ritual had failed anyway.

“Where are we?” Molly asked, half because he was genuinely curious, and half because he knew it would distract Zoran for a few seconds. A few seconds, enough time to gather his strength and reestablish the crumbling barriers between himself and his pain. 

Zoran paused, blinking one eye and then the other like an owl. “You remember that comfortable deal you and Ikithon struck back in the day?”

Anger and disgust exploded in Molly’s chest. He clamped his palm around his deepest wound, gritting his teeth, hissing. “I try not to.”

Zoran smirked, gesturing up and down Molly’s body. “Look at you. Somehow you always end up here, don’t you?”

Molly knew exactly what Zoran meant but wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. He wiped his bloodied hand on his already ruined shirt. “Still haven’t told me where _here_ is.”

“You’re funny.” Zoran’s cold expression contradicted his words. “We’re under Rexxentrum. The Empire and Torrent came to an agreement, after you died and Veltov went mad. We decided to pool our resources and knowledge, despite our… differences.”

“You mean your diverging lack of morals.”

“If you want to sound fancy, yes.” Zoran resumed cutting, slipping the blade’s tip into already-open slashes on his forearms, wrists, and palms. Molly hissed, and Zoran smiled. “You used to be immune to it.”

“To what?” Molly spat, blinking as his vision went white around the edges. He felt sick again. 

“Pain. Didn’t used to bother you.”

“Doesn’t bother me now.” Molly tried to pass off a wince as a shrug. “Just a little less used to it, maybe.”

Zoran stuck the blade through his own hand, and Molly screamed, curling forward, cradling the injured hand to his chest, trying to breathe evenly through the shock and agony. He heard Zoran’s footsteps approaching. Zoran bent down and grabbed one of Molly’s horns, tilting Molly’s face up until he had no choice but to look at him. Zoran grinned, bright and vicious. “You want to try another lie, Lucien?”

Molly took a shuddering breath. He tilted his head back, defiant and furious with pain, and spit in Zoran’s face. At the same moment, he twisted, slamming his elbow into Zoran’s ribcage with a satisfying _crack._ He had a split second to revel in his victory before pain shot through his whole body like a lance, the impact of his own strike cracking several of his ribs. He fell sideways, panting and bleeding onto the sterile white floor. Doves circled, cooing, feathers drifting softly around him like snow. He rolled onto his back and laid his bleeding hand on his chest, breathing shallowly. 

Zoran was laughing, somewhere in the distance. “Can’t even blame you for trying. You were never the brightest, were you, Lucien?”

Molly rolled onto his stomach, regaining a kneeling position. The world spun sickeningly. He ducked his head and breathed through his nose, counting breaths. Just as he managed to get the pain under control, he felt the tip of a blade at his throat. He froze. Looking up, he found Zoran standing a few paces away, back by the door. The Fateblade brushed the thin, fragile skin just under Zoran’s throat. Tiny beads of blood ran down pale skin. Molly lifted a shaking finger to his own throat, tracing the little lines of red. Half an inch deeper, and he’d choke on blood.

“Whatever you want from me, you won’t get it.” Molly spit red. “I won’t beg. I won’t give you that fucking satisfaction.” His tongue was bleeding, two perfect puncture wounds where his fangs had sunk into the skin and muscle. He wiped his lips, wincing. “Fuck off.”

“The ritual.” Zoran’s playful expression vanished. In its place was cold indifference. “You’re dying, Lucien. This time, for good.” He ran a finger over the Fateblade’s edge. “Your soul will be bound to Asmodeus forever. You’ll never escape him again.”

Molly’s breathing sped, hands cold, tail tip twitching as he fought to control the unnamable panic rising inside him. He wanted to ignore what he’d just said, to plead for his life, to give Zoran whatever he wanted. Because it wasn’t just his life at stake _._ It was everything that he was, that he’d ever be. If he died now, in this way, it was over. He’d be stuck in the Hells for all eternity, bound to Asmodeus, trapped in darkness with no hope of seeing the stars or moon again.

 _Caleb._ His heart ached. _Yasha, Beau, Jester, Fjord, Nott…_

“What’s that, Lucien?”

Molly opened his eyes. He hadn’t meant to close them, hadn’t meant to say the Nein’s names aloud. 

“The people you were with. From the carnival, and after that. Who were they? Why were you with them?”

Molly shrugged his uninjured shoulder. He summoned another sharp, bitter smile. “No idea. Didn’t really ask. Wasn’t my business, and mine wasn’t theirs.”

“Did they— _do_ they—know about the Book? The Fatestone?”

“Did you not hear what I _just_ said?”

Zoran held the Fateblade up over his head. For a horrible second, Molly thought he would plunge it into his chest. But then Zoran passed the blade through the torch, holding it there until it glowed dull red, and Molly’s mortal fear faded to weary resignation. “You know where this is going,” Zoran said. “Seen enough interrogations in the Hells, I’m sure.”

Molly bit his arm just before Zoran pressed the blade to his own shoulder, right over the place where the arrow had passed through Molly’s torso. Molly threw his head back, skull cracking against the white wall, providing a welcome moment of numbness. And then he was screaming, Infernal overtaking Common, spitting curses and insults until Zoran flinched away, covering his ears. When Molly came down from the painful rush, he was shaking so hard he could no longer stay upright. Slumping against the wall, he tugged his coat around himself, wishing more than anything that he’d had the common sense to bring his scimitars with him into that fucking clearing. Not that it would’ve done him any good—he hadn’t seen Zoran’s arrows coming until it was far too late.

“Fuck the Book. Fuck the Fatestone.” Zoran’s voice was a low, cold hiss. “If you don’t want to tell me now, you’ll tell me later. What I want to know—what _I_ want to know, Torrent or no Torrent—is what that fucking ritual was.”

Molly shook his head. Against his will, his eyes began to close. He clenched his injured hand, hoping the pain would keep him awake. After all, Zoran couldn’t get the last word. That wasn’t allowed. “I have no idea. Whatever I saw, whatever happened when I was dead, it’s all gone. I don’t know what the fucking ritual was in the first place. Too bad I’m the only one who could have read it without going mad. Real fuckin’ shame.”

Zoran huffed. “You think that’ll keep you alive? We know there’re others out there like you. You’re not the last of Besozia’s bloodline, Lucien. You’re not _that_ special.”

The world narrowed to a single point of white, and Molly gave up on getting the last word. His limbs refused to respond. The ground under him was sticky with blood. Falling sideways, he curled on his side with the familiar weight of his coat covering him like a shield. As his senses faded, the last thing he heard was Zoran’s voice from across the room.

“See you tomorrow, Lucien. That should give you some time to think about what we’ve discussed today.” And then the door creaked open and slammed shut, and Molly was alone with the swooping, swirling doves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what time it is?! It's time for me to torment my faves!! Yee Haw!!


	35. Part IIII: Chapter XXXV: Ashes to Ashes

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE**

**ASHES TO ASHES**

Thirteen days. _Thirteen days._ Caleb stood at the end of a long white hallway and tried to think about anything else. _He’s still alive. He has to be._ And if he wasn’t, if Molly had died in this horrible, colorless place, then Caleb would never forgive himself. _I left him there. I should have been with him._

Tyffial had hung back with Cree, distracting Torrent’s guards and acting as lookout while Caleb and Nott slipped down into the underbelly of Rexxentrum. Nott had disappeared into the vents, promising to cause as many disruptions and as much confusion as possible, while Caleb continued into the belly of the beast. 

It had taken them too long to find this place. If it hadn’t been for Tyffial’s recent knowledge of Torrent’s treaty with the Dwendalian Empire and Cree’s ability to track people using their blood, they never would’ve found it at all.

The hallway appeared empty. Caleb held his diamond in one hand, a flame in the other. Tyffial had killed one of the cultists they’d tracked down in Rexxentrum, allowing Caleb to take the man’s appearance for the mission. Holding his head high, he strode down the white hall and stopped in front of a handle-less door. He stood staring at it for a long moment. And then something inside him broke. 

Without thinking, he dropped his diamond back into the bag and pulled out the Fatestone. Clutching it in one hand, he closed his eyes. Power surged through him, words he’d whispered every night since they’d buried Eodwulf, twice as often since losing Molly again. They tasted like blood in his mouth, sickly sweet and choking. Strapped to his side, the Book of the Damned burned like a red-hot brand.

The door splintered when he touched it, white stone breaking with a sound like thunder, crumbling to dust at his feet. He stepped over the rubble and into the first room. 

Torrent burned. Screaming, faces melting, bones turning to ash, embers flickering to darkness. They came at him with curses and swords and spells, and he brushed them off with gestures and hissing, vicious words. He was on fire himself, burning alive, and they were like moths. He touched their wings, and they turned to dust.

One room. Two. Three. The compound filled with smoke, corpses charred beyond recognition. Caleb walked, calm and sure, unfeeling as he burned. 

The last door. He touched it as he had the first, reveling in the way it fell apart. Inside, another room. Smaller, so small four people couldn’t fit comfortably inside it. Crouched in one corner was Mollymauk. As Caleb entered the room, Molly looked up.

“Caleb?” None of Molly’s usual good humor colored his voice. Caleb had never seen him like this, not even after the compound, after everything Narayah Veltov had put him through. Caleb knelt, tucking the Fatestone back into his satchel, and held out shaking hands. The fire in his fingers died. Molly stared at him, eyes glazed, distant. Gouges covered every visible inch of Molly’s throat, his chest, his bare forearms. Many of the cuts were old. Those were carefully straight, almost surgical. The newer ones were jagged and uneven. _Claw marks,_ Caleb thought. He swallowed hard.

“Mollymauk, _ja_ , it’s me. Are you alright?” The instant the question was out, Caleb hated himself for it. Of course not. None of this was alright.

Molly held out a shaking hand. Caleb took it. He moved closer, and to his surprise, Molly wrapped both arms around his neck and collapsed against him. Molly tucked his face against Caleb’s shoulder, and Caleb put an arm hesitantly around Molly’s waist, grabbing a fistful of the beautiful, bloodstained coat. Molly’s usually soft hair was thick with dried blood and sweat. Caleb rested his chin on top of Molly’s head. “Mollymauk, we have to get out of here. Can you walk?”

Molly shook his head, tightening his grip. “ _Kahrahsh ahvahk’ai, Kahlehv._ ” 

Caleb readjusted himself so that he could look down at the part of Molly’s face that wasn’t pressed to his chest. “I don’t speak that language, Mollymauk. You haven’t taught me it yet, remember?”

Molly blinked. Confusion flashed across his features. And then he straightened up just enough to look into Caleb’s eyes as he said, voice soft and desperate, “Don’t leave me, Caleb.”

The unfeeling cold that had accompanied Caleb through his fiery rampage vanished. His chest ached. He sighed, pressing his forehead to Molly’s. “It’s alright. I won’t leave without you.”

Molly closed his eyes. His face was covered with blood; it was almost impossible to remember what shade his skin had been before. Caleb’s sharp mind, however, made it impossible _not_ to remember. He felt sick.

“Everything fucking _hurts_ ,” Molly whined. He grimaced, shaking his head. One hand came up to grip Caleb’s wrist. Caleb was about to protest the bruising grip when Molly turned his face into Caleb’s touch, lips brushing over Caleb’s palm. When Molly’s eyes opened again, they were clearer, more alert. “You’re here.” The faintest hint of that familiar grin. “My hero.”

“If you can’t walk, Mollymauk, I may have to carry you.”

Molly laughed. Then he winced, clenching his jaw, eyes screwed shut. “Ow, ow, ow. Don’t do that.”

Caleb immediately stopped touching him. “I’m sorry, doing what?”

Molly’s eyes snapped open. The desperation was back. “No, don’t… don’t stop, it’s okay, not that. Just. Don’t make me laugh.”

Caleb wondered if he should feel insulted. The last thing he felt like doing was laughing. How did Molly manage to find anything funny in a situation like this?

“Okay.” Caleb put on a brusque, business-like tone. “We have to leave. The others are waiting.”

“You smell like smoke,” Molly said as Caleb helped him to his feet. Caleb put an arm around Molly’s waist, and Molly leaned into him, resting his head on Caleb’s shoulder. “Who did you have to kill to get in here?”

“Everyone,” Caleb said. He turned away so that Molly couldn’t see his face, and they walked slowly through the door into the hallway beyond.

Molly was silent for a concerningly long time. And then, “And when you say _everyone…_?”

“Whoever I saw, I burned. I left the bodies where they were.” 

As they passed back through rooms of burnt bones, charred furniture, and bent steel, Caleb breathed through his mouth and tried not to feel sick. Shame washed over him. Panic, memories circling like vultures. _I did this. I killed all of them_.

“Holy fuck.” Molly’s voice was soft. “Caleb, are you okay?”

Caleb laughed, hysterical and half-mad. “You’re the one asking me?”

“I know how much this fucks with you.”

Tears blurred Caleb’s vision. He inhaled shakily. The last of the adrenaline high was wearing off, leaving him weak and exhausted. He shook it off, squaring his shoulders and tightening his grip on Molly’s waist. No time for that now.

“So,” Molly said after another prolonged silence, “is there a second part to this rescue plan?”

“Nott is causing a diversion a few levels up to distract the cultists who I did not… take care of.” The fire in his blood surged, fingertips glowing like live coals. “There may be dozens left alive, including Zoran Kluthidol, who is unaccounted for.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I have some questions for Zoran, if it’s possible to take him alive.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mollymauk.”

“I don’t think burning down half of Torrent while you’re _in their headquarters_ is a good idea, but here we are.”

Caleb ignored the jolt of reflexive irritation and hurt. “Once the diversion is activated, Nott will come find us. She knows a way out through the lowermost level of Torrent’s dungeons. If it comes to it, I believe I remember enough of the map to get us out myself, but that is a last resort.”

Molly nodded, readjusting his head on Caleb’s shoulder so that the tip of his horn was no longer in danger of poking Caleb’s neck. “Fair enough. Sounds like you came well prepared, considering the circumstances.”

“We should head deeper down before anyone comes to check on you,” Caleb said. “If Zoran returns, I can’t promise I have enough spells left to fight him.”

“Oh, you could fight him, but you couldn’t _defeat_ him.”

“This is not the time for—” 

In the distance, voices sounded. Caleb tensed, inhaling sharply, and twisted to look down at Molly, who was still leaning heavily on his shoulder. “We have to move.” Caleb adjusted his grip on Molly’s waist, jaw clenched with effort as he all but carried his companion toward the exit. 

The voices grew closer, then stopped. Caleb paused halfway to the ruined door, every nerve on fire, breathing in short, sharp bursts. For a moment he stood frozen, deciding whether to flee or stand and fight, when footsteps sounded in the room beyond the rubble. At first, Caleb couldn’t make out the shifting shadows dancing with blinding bursts of torchlight in the room beyond. And then his eyes adjusted, and his heart stopped, body going numb.

Silhouetted against the white light spilling through the doorway were two armored figures holding a third between them. They were led by a tall, slender man in swirling white and gold robes.

Molly hissed. “Fuck. Caleb, is that—?”

The white-robed figure raised a hand, and Molly fell silent. 

“Bren Ermundrud.” The voice was painfully familiar, smooth as poisoned honey. The figure stepped into the hallway. The torchlight settled around his features, flickering flames dancing on sallow skin. Trent Ikithon smiled. “This is a surprise.”

Caleb froze. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t run, _run, get out of here, run…_

Ikithon held up a bloodstained piece of paper in one gloved hand. “Torrent betrayed me, stole from me.” His smile turned sharp and dangerous. “And now I know who helped them do it.”

Fire danced, rising and falling in rusted sconces. Ash fell like rain. Caleb closed his eyes and surrendered to the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONLY FIVE MORE CHAPTERS LEFT Y'ALL!! Shit is going DOWN.


	36. Part IIII: Chapter XXXVI: Death and Damnation

****

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX**

****

**DEATH AND DAMNATION**

Trent Ikithon gestured for the two armored guards to step forward. As they dragged their prisoner into the light, Molly barely recognized Zoran’s bloody, battered features. In that moment, horror overrode the satisfaction he should have felt at seeing his tormentor brought low. Zoran’s face was gouged open, blood gushing from a chasm of gaping red. His eyes were closed, jaw hanging open. Molly wasn’t even sure he was alive.

The guards dropped Zoran at Ikithon’s feet. One unsheathed a long, glimmering blade of polished crystal and handed it to Ikithon. Ikithon took it, holding it up to the torchlight. Fire flashed down its length. 

Molly tensed. _The Fateblade! Does he know what it is? What it can do?_

Beside him, Caleb inhaled sharply. Caleb’s hand fell from Molly’s shoulder, his body rigid, eyes wide and staring at nothing. Molly had seen this before, but never to this degree. If he didn’t know better, he would say that Caleb was under the influence of a Hold Person spell. 

But he knew better.

Lifting his head and setting his shoulders, Molly glared at Ikithon. The simple movement nearly knocked him to his knees; with a gasp, he reached out and caught himself against the nearest wall.

Ikithon’s expression was cold, calculating. He gestured at Zoran, and the second guard pushed their captive to his knees. Zoran fell to all fours, shaking and gasping, his dark blood spattering the white stone. “I am done with him,” Ikithon said. “Torrent has nothing more to offer me.”

The guard pointed at the Fateblade. “Will you do it with that?”

Ikithon nodded. “Kluthidol has one last use.” He ran a finger over the flat of the Blade. “I’d like to see what it does. How it works. Here.” He handed the Fateblade to the second guard. “Do the honors.”

The guard grabbed a handful of Zoran’s hair and pulled his head back. Molly felt the sudden urge to interfere, to knock the Blade away before it could find its mark. Zoran had done horrible things, but no one deserved to die like this. It wasn’t just death—it was damnation.

Zoran screamed as the Blade sank into the side of his neck. Like a sacrificial goat, he writhed and gurgled, choking on blood. The second guard stepped back as red spattered her armor and boots. Zoran slumped forward, shaking and twitching, hands scrabbling uselessly at the gash in his throat. Molly wanted to look away, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was vengeance or solidarity that made him watch until Zoran’s eyes glazed over and his limbs stopped jerking, his blood, already blackening in thick rivulets between cracked stone tiles, reflected the captive fires lining the hall.

The guard carefully wiped the blood off the Fateblade. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the crystal blade glowed bright, surrounded by flickering tongues of blinding white flame. Zoran’s back arched, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, as a thick white-gold smoke rose from the gash in his throat. It swirled like chimney smoke, curling and dancing. The guard raised the Blade, and the smoke wrapped around it like a lover’s fingers. As the light grew brighter, Molly narrowed his eyes, but refused to close them. He wasn’t sure why, but he had to watch. He had to see. He had to understand. 

There was a flash of white, and then the smoke was gone. The blade stopped glowing. Zoran’s corpse fell into the congealing pool of blood. Ikithon held out his hand, and the guard handed over the Blade.

“This is the largest piece I’ve ever seen.” Ikithon held the Fateblade with cautious delicacy. “The others were shards, little pieces of a bigger whole.” Ikithon’s eyes flickered to Caleb. Molly followed his gaze, and found that Caleb’s expression, previously frozen in horror, had shifted to one of solemn understanding. Ikithon sighed. “No wonder it never worked. Remnants of a shattered blade aren’t what I needed. This…” He stroked one finger down the Fateblade’s edge, “… _this_ is what I need.”

Ikithon snapped his fingers and Caleb unfroze with a gasp, staggering back, bracing himself against the wall, visibly shaking. Ikithon gave him a hard, cold look. “To think,” he said, “that you couldn’t handle the little I asked of you. Weaknesses. We all have ours, and you are one of mine. I believed in you, despite your flaws. I should’ve seen this coming.” Ikithon turned away, gesturing at the guards. “Collect my apprentice and Damakos. I have more questions for them, but this isn’t the place. I would prefer to do this in the comfort of my own chambers.”

One of the guards pulled out two pairs of handcuffs covered in arcane runes. Molly straightened up, showing his fangs in a cutting smile. “Are those for me?” He held out his hands, palms up. His fingers shook, blood running from half-healed wounds on his arms and chest, but he lifted his chin and did his best to stay upright. “Well, come on. I’m tired of foreplay.”

The guard hesitated. Molly couldn’t see her expression under the crested helm, but he felt her nervousness like a tangible thing. Molly was about to make another cutting remark when Caleb let out a startled gasp of pain. Molly whirled around, body on fire with adrenaline, to see the other guard shoving Caleb against the wall. As the guard fastened the cuffs around Caleb’s wrists, the runes glowed gold and red, pulsing like living fire. Caleb made another pained sound, and something in Molly snapped.

He didn’t even know he’d done it. For a moment he was back in a dark alley, only two months old, breaking apart as something dark and deadly uncoiled inside him. He heard the man’s screams—this man in the present, and the one in the past—as blood gushed from under the guard’s helmet, staining his armor. The guard staggered back, grasping at his helmet, and Molly blinked away the clinging memories. He stepped back, hit the wall, and fell to the floor. Doves circled, white feathers blurring his vision. He closed his eyes, and the whiteness surrounded him, suffocating and inescapable. He breathed in, out, in out. Waiting for the fall.

Caleb called his name. Warm hands—too warm, almost uncomfortably so—cupped his jaw, trailing down his throat. Caleb was whispering, soft, rapid-fire words in a language Molly didn’t understand. For a moment, Caleb’s fingers brushed over Molly’s clavicle, before sliding around to the nape of his neck. Molly swore he heard a faint _click_ as Caleb’s fingers tangled in the hair at the base of his skull, but in his half-conscious state, he couldn’t be sure. He’d barely registered the pleasant sensation of Caleb’s hands on him before it disappeared.

There was the sound of a scuffle, and a heavy _thud._ One of the guards was swearing. Caleb was swearing, too. Molly wanted to open his eyes to see if Caleb was alright, but it was enough of a miracle that he was still conscious. He rode a wave of white oblivion, clenching his jaw and clinging to the last shred of consciousness. 

“Bren. You know better. I had them search Kluthidol for weapons the moment we arrested him.” Ikithon’s voice was caught between disappointment and amusement. “It would have been useless anyway. He carried no weapons you could use against me. And look at you, all covered in blood and dirt. All that poise and potential, thrown away.” A heavy sigh. “Get him up. Check if Damakos is breathing and give him this.” There was the sloshing sound of a potion changing hands. “As much as I’d like to leave him here with his traitorous brethren, I need him alive.”

Molly turned his head away as one of the guards pulled him up by the front of his shirt. He opened his eyes on the blood-stained face of the guard he’d cursed. Molly managed a shaky smile and an airy gesture. “Ah, sorry about that. Nothing personal. Self-defense is a messy business.” 

The guard grabbed Molly by one horn. He tilted Molly’s head back to an uncomfortable degree, unstopping the potion with the other. Molly half-heartedly attempted to shove him away. The guard grunted, impatience written in his roughness, and pressed the lip of the bottle to Molly’s mouth. “Drink it.”

Molly winced as the guard released his horn and grabbed a handful of his hair. “Fuck. _Ow_ , fuck. Okay!” He downed the potion in one long swig. “There.” He wiped his mouth on his bloody, fraying sleeve. “Happy?”

The guard glared. “Not really.” He grabbed Molly by the front of his shirt and dragged him upright. Molly yelped. “Hold out your fucking hands.”

Molly did. The guard fastened the cuffs around his wrists. Immediately, a burning pain shot up his arms, veins glowing red under lavender skin. The runes pulsed blood-red. The guard fastened the cuffs together, chaining Molly’s hands in front of him. Molly gritted his teeth. As the healing potion coursed through his body, the largest wounds closed, bruises fading. He was left achy and shaking as the numbness of shock and weariness disappeared. In its wake was deep, dull pain. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing. Without the numbness to distract him, it all came crashing down. The pain, the frustration, the panic. The narrow walls like a tomb around him, buried deep underground, forgotten. Alone.

Molly didn’t know what caused it. Maybe it was the stress, the sleep deprivation, the panic or the pain. Likely it was a mix of all four. Before he could do anything, say anything, the world went white as consciousness faded to nothing.

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Nott crawled out of a sewage passage covered head-to-toe in dust, shit, ashes, and blood. In the distance, screams filled Torrent’s underground headquarters, pleas cut short. Through gaps in the grates, she caught glimpses of a figure, cloaked and hooded, pale face and bright brown eyes flashing in the torchlight. The arcane power the cloaked mage wielded spread like a plague through Torrent’s ranks, cultists falling at her feet, their veins turning black where her spells touched them. She hadn’t spared a glance for the dying, leaving them to froth and seize, bleeding through burst veins into gutters and drains.

Tyffial was waiting for Nott in the basement above Torrent’s headquarters. Overhead, the raucous voices of merrymaking mercenaries and commoners filtered down through cracks in the stone ceiling. Torrent’s vast network of underground tunnels had been built under Rexxentrum’s seedy outer neighborhoods, directly beneath the slums where Rakasha lived. The entrance to the labyrinth was in the basement of a particularly shabby tavern, accessible only by crawling through a trap door and descending a dangerously rickety, tippy ladder. As far as Nott was concerned, the ladder was more dangerous than the cultists. 

Tyffial tugged off the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, giving Nott a sweeping, narrow-eyed look. “Are you hurt?”

Nott patted herself down, then shook her head. She was shaking, hands numb from a combination of drunkenness and fear, and her whole body was sticky with sweat and blood. “I was on my way to create a diversion on the lower levels, but there’s someone already down there. A mage—I think she’s one of Ikithon’s apprentices, but I… I don’t know, I don’t _know!_ She’s killing them all, one by one, with this horrible magic poison spell. It has to be her, right? Who else could it be?”

Tyffial silenced her with a sharp gesture. Nott glared, slightly reproachful, but allowed her to speak. “You’re right. That sounds like Astrid.”

Nott had known it from the moment she’d set eyes on the cloaked mage. “I don’t want him to have to go through that. And Ikithon, if he’s here with Astrid, then they’re going to… I just can’t… this is _terrible!_ Why did we decide to do this?” Shaking, Nott whipped out her flask and took a long gulp. 

Tyffial turned toward the rickety ladder. In the pitch dark, the only visible light came from cracks around the closed trapdoor. “Come on,” she said. “We need to find Cree and the others. Until we know what’s going on with them, we have to assume that the plan is—”

_BOOM!_

Nott flew back, screaming at the top of her lungs as the ground split open under her feet. She launched herself across the room and clung to Tyffial, who was half-upright, hanging onto the ladder. Overhead, the conversations died. The only sound was the distant settling of rubble under the city’s skin.

“Oh no!” Nott’s chest tightened. Panic surged, heart pounding, hands shaking so hard she could barely hold onto her flask. She let go of Tyffial, coughing as dust and smoke filled the basement. “Caleb! _Caleb!_ Oh fuck, oh shit, Tyffial, _shit_ , we have to go down there and find him! Caleb and Molly, they’re both down there, and they just… he…” She stopped, coughing violently, eyes watering. “ _I’m going now,_ ” she hissed. She ran across the room and slammed into the crooked, half-unhinged door leading into the depths. “Fuck! Ow! It’s too heavy.” She shoved it again. The giant slab of wood and metal held fast.

Tyffial approached so silently Nott didn’t realize she was helping until the door ground open. Beyond the door, the main passage was in ruins. Rubble filled the narrow space; a few roughly goblin-sized gaps were the only way through. Nott turned to Tyffial, who shrugged. “I’m going in,” Nott said, leaving no room for argument.

“Then go, but be careful. No matter how dangerous you think Ikithon is, trust me, he’s worse.”

Nott didn’t reply. Without looking back, she stepped over the threshold and into the passage beyond.

° ° °

Slipping through cracks in crumbled stone, Nott picked her way past corpses still choking on ash and blackened blood. Some called out to her as she passed, pleading, crying. Fiend hunters, Blood Hunters, warriors brought low by Astrid’s sickly magic. 

Nott almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

The upper dungeons were four levels below the streets of Rexxentrum. Nott crawled past chunks of rock and twisted metal, trying not to think about the fact that, even if she found Caleb and Molly somewhere under all this rubble, it would be nigh impossible to get them out.

She emerged into a hallway of stone painted blinding white. Torches, guttering low as the air grew stale, cast eerie shadows on cracked walls. At the far end of the hall was a stone door thrown wide. Blood spattered the walls, long dried and peeling like old paint. As she approached, she noticed a pale hand sticking out from under a pile of dust and rocks. She stopped, throat closing. _Please,_ she prayed to any gods who might be listening, _don’t be Caleb._

It wasn’t Caleb. It was an elven man, eyes wide and staring, halfway crushed beneath a mound of broken rock. His jaw hung open, blood congealing on his lips. His throat was gashed open. His face was frozen in a contorted look of pain. Nott wasn’t sure who he was, but she could guess, and decided he’d gotten exactly what he deserved. 

The cell at the end of the hall was miraculously untouched by the explosion, but judging by the widening cracks in the ceiling, it was one shove away from total collapse. Nott approached cautiously, holding her breath. She hesitated in the doorway for a heartbeat, and then stepped inside.

The room was tiny and painted white, the walls covered in blood and long, deep gouges. Nott ran her fingers over the marks, her claws slipping into the grooves as if she’d made them herself. She frowned, turning away. _This is it,_ she thought. _This is where they were keeping him._ She crouched, reaching for her flask. If this was where Caleb had found Molly, then where were they? This wasn’t part of the plan. The explosion had caught them all by surprise. Whoever had set it off had destroyed the entire compound in one go; Nott had a feeling that was the intended outcome. But if so, was it Astrid who’d done it? Ikithon? Nott shook her head. She took a long, deep swig from her flask, then tucked it back under her cloak. She straightened up and was about to start digging through the rubble when a flash of metal caught her eye. Instinctively she reached for it, bending down to scoop up the shining trinket. 

Except it wasn’t a trinket. It was a medallion, covered in arcane runes slightly faded by years of wear and tear. Nott stared at it for a long moment before it hit her: _Caleb’s necklace._

She stayed crouched on the floor for another few heartbeats, clutching Caleb’s protective charm to her chest, trying very hard not to speculate on why he’d left it behind. Then, stuffing the amulet into her pouch, she pulled out an empty vial and collected a sample of the freshest blood in the cell. It couldn’t be Zoran’s blood, or Cree’s locating spell wouldn’t work. As long as Caleb was with Molly, it should lead her to them both. Besides, this was only a precaution—they still had the vials of blood from the Gentleman, which Cree had used to locate Jester and Fjord as soon as they reached Rexxentrum. 

Once she’d scooped up enough blood, Nott corked the vial and stuffed it in her pouch. Squinting against the settling dust, she crept back down the passage toward the distant promise of fresh air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THIS CHAPTER WHILE TRYING TO UPLOAD THE NEXT ONE AND I'M SO MAD WHY THE FUCK DID I DO THAT AAAHHHHHHHH
> 
> I'm so sad I didn't get to reply to some of y'all's comments I'm sorryyyy aaahhh! D,: Just know that I saw them all and appreciate them so much!! Thank you thank you thank you!! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Anyway, ya girl is a fucking disaster so there's that!!!!!! No more eggnog for me!!! Fuuuckkk


	37. Part IIII: Chapter XXXVII: Love and Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the chapter I actually meant to post today!! I'm with my whole family over the holiday weekend and the chaos levels are off the fuckin charts. Not to mention that fact that I MAY have had just a LITTLE peppermint schnapps, which really hasn't helped my mental state lmfaoooo 
> 
> Again, sorry for the repeat-post, and to everyone who commented on the last chapter who I didn't reply to: I read your comments and I loved them; thank you so much for your kind words and encouragements!! Love you all! <3 <3 <3

****

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN**

****

**LOVE AND LOYALTY**

Caleb thought he was ready. He’d gone into Torrent’s headquarters knowing that something bad was going to happen (in fact, he’d been counting on it) but this? He hadn’t mentally prepared for this.

The laboratory was the same as he remembered. Hidden behind the fireplace in Trent’s office, it remained a secret sanctuary for experiments that the rest of the world wasn’t ready for. Those were the things Trent had told Bren, Astrid, Eodwulf when they were young and naïve. Fresh-eyed apprentices, new students eager to prove themselves and their loyalty to the Empire. _We would have done anything for him,_ Caleb thought with a jolt of disgust. _And now…_

From across the room, Trent gave Caleb a narrow-eyed look. Astrid stood at the base of the stairs, hood down, eyes flashing in the candlelight. At her feet, still unconscious and bound by rune-covered cuffs, was Mollymauk. Blood ran down his face from the wound he’d sustained in the explosion. Astrid had destroyed what remained of Torrent in one fell swoop, and nearly taken out herself as well.

_Fire, blood, sickness, death,_ Caleb thought. He bowed his head, closing his eyes. He felt sick, guilt and anger mingling like poison in his veins. _That’s what we are, Astrid and I. He made monsters of us long ago._

Trent straightened up. Caleb met his gaze, then glanced down and away. Terror joined the guilt burning in his chest. The circumstances didn’t matter; being forced to come face-to-face with the man who had ruined his life, torn away his agency and tampered with his memories, forced him to destroy everything he’d loved… it was almost too much. In fact, now that he was here, faced not only with Trent but Astrid, it _was_ too much. His heart felt like it would explode. His mind was so thick with panic he could barely think, let alone focus on any plan. 

Trent finished riffling through a stack of scrolls and made his way around the table toward the alchemy bench. He stopped a few feet from where Caleb knelt, hands bound, trapped in a ring of arcane energy. Trent half-smiled. “There was a time,” he said, “when you would have broken those cuffs with a snap of your fingers.” The smile slipped away. Trent leaned in, almost into the circle, and Caleb forced himself not to flinch. “I made you so powerful, Bren. I gave up so much for you.”

“ _Nein._ ” Caleb gritted his teeth, flexing his fingers like claws. He fought the rage rising in his chest, red-hot ashes on his tongue. “You did what you did for yourself. You did _nothing_ for me.”

Trent straightened with a sigh. “You were my favorite.” Behind him, Astrid visibly tensed. She ducked her head, and it took every particle of Caleb’s self-control not to look directly at her. “I always expected you to survive the longest.” Trent turned away. He walked back to the table and picked up something wrapped in rawhide. There was a flash of white as he drew the Fateblade. “This is what I needed all along. The shards I used before, they weren’t enough. You, Astrid, Eodwulf… you proved that.”

Caleb closed his eyes. Memories flooded back, the sensation of crystals biting into his skin, flashes of light behind his eyes, white flames licking at his skin. When he opened his eyes, Trent was standing in front of him again, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I thought I failed, Bren.” Trent held the Fateblade like it was made of glass, reverent and ceremonious. “But I didn’t, did I?”

Caleb tried to think about anything but the echo of excruciating pain, the soul-deep tug in his chest that had always felt like his soul was being torn away from his body. It made sense now that he had felt that way. The crystal shards Trent had stuck into his body, into all their bodies, were conduits of a power far greater than he’d imagined. The Fateblade was, like the Book of the Damned and the Twelfth Conduit, a relic of the Age of Arcanum. Caleb had read about them in the books of fiendish lore at the Academy, and in the Book of the Damned itself. The Fateblade had once been the sword of Asmodeus, King of the Nine Hells. During the Calamity, it had shattered into a thousand pieces. Asmodeus’s followers crafted a dagger from the largest shard, a weapon used to sacrifice souls to their devil god, but the sword, along with most of its power, was lost forever.

“None of you ever managed to complete the rituals I assigned you.” Trent wrapped the Fateblade with painful tenderness and slipped it under his robes. “I thought that offering pieces of your souls to Asmodeus would make you strong enough to survive the process.”

Caleb shuddered. He remembered the pain, the stabbing agony, the flames of the Nine Hells rising around him…

“You always had an affinity for fire, Bren. It was like you were made for this.”

Anger flared again. Caleb forced it down, gritting his teeth. _Don’t let him get to you!_ The little voice in his head was strong, insistent, clear. _Stay calm. It’s critical that you stay calm._ He listened to the voice, memorizing the words, repeating them like a mantra in his mind.

“I believed,” Trent continued, walking around the arcane circle, visually scanning every inch of Caleb’s bloodstained, dirt-covered form, “that there was a way to create a caster powerful enough to use the Book without the Blood of Bensozia. I gave up on it, once you broke. You came the closest to success, and it destroyed you.”

“I broke,” Caleb said, through clenched teeth, “because I murdered my mother and father.”

“Would you have killed them if you were not already slipping?”

Caleb blinked. Tears stung, hot and painful. His throat was too tight to respond. Words froze on his tongue, air lodging in his throat. For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“No. That is the answer, Bren. You would not have.” Trent’s voice grew cold. “When I ask you a question, you will answer it. You may be a traitor, but I expect your obedience nonetheless.”

When Caleb remained silent, eyes downcast, head bent, Trent continued. “You are broken, but your mind is your own. The reason for this evaded me for many years, but now I understand how you regained some semblance of sanity: Narayah Veltov. She saved you, didn’t she? In the asylum.”

“Yes.” Caleb remembered the wildness in her eyes, tangled red hair and pale hands. “She needed me to burn down the asylum so that she could escape. And so, once I realized what you had done to me, that is exactly what I did.”

“The Book destroyed Veltov in the end. Is that right?”

“ _Ja._ ”

“But she lasted a long time.” Trent hummed thoughtfully. “She had the Fateblade. Another apprentice of mine found it on her body in the Greying Wildlands, and told me that she was using it to make sacrifices to her god, fueling her power and elongating her life.” Coldness crept back into Trent’s tone. “I won’t resort to such savagery. There are other ways to harness the great powers of this world. Although sacrifices must be made in any noble endeavor, there are lines that cannot be crossed.”

Caleb clenched his jaw, hands curling into fists. “You forced children to murder their parents, and yet you’re worried about morality?”

Astrid made a sharp, disapproving sound. “Let me prove him wrong,” she said.

Trent nodded at her. “Granted.”

She took a step toward Caleb, glaring at him across the cluttered table. Her eyes betrayed nothing, but he recognized the delirious passion and righteous conviction in her words. “Our parents were traitors, Bren. You heard them. You know it’s true.” Her voice was the exact opposite of Trent’s. While his was cold and careful, hers was hot with passion. “We did what we had to do. For the Empire.”

“It was a lie, Astrid.” Caleb couldn’t meet her gaze. He knew that if he did, he would break. He felt her eyes on him, hot hazel sparks full of disappointment and anger. “Trent put false memories in our heads. It was a test. He planned it.”

Astrid made a disgusted sound. “Listen to you. Pleading with yourself, because you know you’re wrong. You’re guilty. That’s what it is. You feel guilty for what your parents did, not for what you had to do.”

“I had to do _nothing._ ” Caleb wanted to stand up, to face her on her level. But he couldn’t provoke them. If he wanted to survive, he would have to keep his head. He’d seen what Astrid could do when provoked to anger, and the last thing he wanted was to be on the receiving end of that. “I could have walked away. I could have helped them escape, but I trusted in the wrong thing, and it destroyed me.”

Trent sighed. He turned back toward the table and picked something up. Although Caleb couldn’t see it, he knew what it was before Trent turned around. “The Book of the Damned contains secrets no mortal man should know.” Trent smiled condescendingly. “That’s what all the literature says. But there is a difference between _should_ and _can_. In this room, I have two of the most viable living conduits for its power. Veltov survived not only because she had the Fateblade, but because she had the Blood of Bensozia. She did not carry that power, of course, but she had unlimited access.” Trent glanced at Mollymauk, who lay unconscious in the farthest corner of the room. “Lucien Damakos, the spawn of Bensozia and Asmodeus, Lord of the Hells.” He chuckled darkly. “What good fortune it was that brought us together in the beginning, and better fortune that I have found him again after all this time.”

Caleb closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Composing himself. _Be careful, Caleb. Don’t say or do anything stupid._ He wanted to ignore the little voice. He wanted to break the cuffs, erase the arcane circle, and launch himself at Trent. He wanted to burnt Trent to ashes where he stood. 

_There’ll be time for revenge, but this isn’t it. Don’t throw it all away._

“Astrid.” Trent’s voice was dangerously soft. “I would like Damakos to join this conversation.”

Caleb felt Astrid’s eyes on him for a brief moment. “Of course, Master Ikithon.” She grabbed Molly by the horn and dragged him upright, pinning him against the wall with one hand around his throat. She reached under her cloak and extracted a long needle. She held out a hand to Trent, who wordlessly retrieved a vial of swirling, silver liquid from the table. He handed it to her. She plunged the needle into the vial and extracted a plungerful. Before Caleb could say or do anything, she stuck the needle into Molly’s neck and pushed the plunger down.

“What did you do? What was that you gave him?” Caleb forced himself to stay calm. The more fear he showed, the more control they had.

“Relax.” Astrid rolled her eyes. She put away the needle and tossed aside the empty vial. “It’s meant to revive him.”

Caleb bit his lip, heart pounding, palms sweaty. “Are you sure that it—?”

Molly’s eyes opened. He was on his feet in an instant, turning on Astrid with his fangs bared. He ducked her first blow and slammed his head against her chest, his horns connecting solidly with her breastbone. Astrid snarled, grabbing his horns and pushing him away. She lunged forward and seized him by the throat, pinning him to the nearest wall. She jerked her knee up into his crotch and Molly yelped, folding over, swearing viciously in Infernal.

“Shut up.” Astrid elbowed him hard in the ribs. Molly gasped, coughing. Astrid spun him around, grabbed him by the hair, and pushed him onto his knees. “Stay down, demon.”

_Devil!_ Caleb almost smiled, but the weight on his chest and the panic in his throat prevented it.

Molly tilted his head back, smirking up at her. “Or what?”

Astrid’s eyes narrowed. “Or else.”

“Please,” Trent said, “this is a professional environment. We are not savages.”

“Oh, yes.” Molly’s grin could cut through solid steel. “Nothing like a professional torture dungeon full of illegal experiments and illegally detained prisoners. Tell me, Ikithon, do your fellow Assembly members know you’re here? Hmm?”

Looking bored, Trent flicked his hand and Molly fell silent, although his lips continued moving. “I don’t have time for arrogant devil-bloods. I’ve spent more than enough time taming you, Damakos. I would hate to have to do it again.”

Caleb opened his mouth, flames of fury rising around him, bitter words on his tongue. 

_Don’t do it. It’s not worth it. Be patient._

He exhaled, and the flames cooled. 

Trent crossed the room to stand in front of Caleb again. In his hands he held the Book of the Damned. “I know you conducted a ritual from this book, Bren. Who else could have undone the spell that Veltov performed on Damakos?”

“I reverse-engineered the spell that Veltov used. It is a very different thing than performing a ritual from the Book itself.”

“Then it’s time to up the stakes. I am glad you had the Conduit on you, or this would be impossible.” When Caleb didn’t respond, Trent continued. “I have you and Damakos, and I am confident that with the Conduit and the Book, we may be able to harness the powers of Hell itself.”

“I will _not_ help you.” Caleb spit every word like a curse. “I have learned my lesson. I would rather die.”

Astrid raised one hand, fingers curled, and twisted. Caleb’s whole body lit up with pain. He curled into himself, biting his tongue to keep from screaming. The pain faded at once, leaving him gasping and shaking. Blood filled his mouth, pouring from the gash his teeth had left in his tongue. He spit, red spattering his chin and dripping onto the stone floor.

“Caleb!” Molly’s voice was faint, strained, still partially restricted by Trent’s spell. “Caleb, _Mahthrahvahsh,_ are you alright?”

Caleb lifted his head just enough to look at Molly under the table. Their eyes met, and Caleb smiled faintly. “ _Ja,_ Mollymauk, I’m fine.” He spit again, wiping his mouth. “Someday you will have to explain that word to me. I still don’t know what it means.”

“And I still can’t tell you.” Molly visibly relaxed, a relieved smile replacing the helpless anger and pain. “It’s completely untranslatable.”

Caleb sat up and found Astrid watching him, her expression curious and calculating. “You killed half of Torrent to save this demon, Bren. Why is that? What is he to you?” She raised her hand again, this time looking at Molly, but Trent stopped her with a sharp look.

“We are all civilized people, Astrid, are we not?”

“Most of us.” Astrid sneered at Molly. Caleb clenched his hands until his nails dug into his palms.

“Bren.” Trent’s voice softened. Caleb felt the poison slip into his mind, tugging at his will. “I know you can do this. I just need you to show me how.”

Caleb opened his mouth, but Molly got there first. “Listen, _Kahvrahkehsh,_ because I’m only going to say it once: you can shove that bloody book directly up your ass, because Caleb is never going to fall for your fucking mind-control bullshit ever again.”

Trent turned to Molly with a condescending smile. “And you, _Mahvrehk’ahsh?_ I never tampered with your mind. Everything you did, you did of your own free will. Isn’t that right?” 

Caleb stiffened. Molly’s eyes narrowed to slits. He bared his fangs in a vicious snarl. “Don’t you dare call me that. Ever.”

Trent’s smile darkened. “I hear that Lucien’s friends are dwindling. But you’ve cast that name aside, haven’t you? I wonder what you’d do to protect your new companions. You’ve always been so willing to throw yourself in harm’s way for those you love.” 

Molly leapt up, but before he could get farther than that, Trent flicked his hand and Molly fell to his knees, head bowed, breathing hard.

“Manners, _Mahvrehk’ahsh._ ” Trent’s smile vanished. “You should learn some.”

The tip of Molly’s tail flicked back and forth. For a moment Caleb thought he would pounce, but then he looked up and grinned, humorless and sharp. “Irritation is an art, darling, and I am a master.”

“Stop wasting my time, Damakos.” Trent’s voice took on a sharpness that hadn’t been there before. Caleb shivered—that voice, in his extensive experience, was a promise of pain. “Tell me, what would you give up to save your companions’ lives? To save your own? Because I will find them, the others you and Bren traveled with. The tiefling cleric and the charming half-orc, the goblin girl, the monk of the Cobalt Soul, and the Xhorhasian. What is the price you would put on their lives?”

Caleb saw the exact moment Molly’s resolve cracked. The rage in his eyes remained, but it was now mixed with resignation. “I’ll tell you how Caleb does it. No more bullshit. I’ll tell you everything.”

Trent took another step toward Molly. Caleb tensed. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected Molly to take the situation into his own hands. Maybe Molly had known Trent before, in another life, as another person. But he didn’t know Trent now, and Caleb was terrified. _He will know,_ Caleb thought _. He will know if you’re lying._

Trent stood over Molly, who tilted his head back, flashing a roguish smile. “How do you like the view from up there?”

“I find it lacking.” Trent sounded bored again. “Tell me how Bren conducted the ritual, and perhaps I can justify keeping you in one piece.”

“I adore it when powerful men make empty threats.”

Trent leaned down until his face was inches from Molly’s. He laid a hand on Molly’s horn in a parody of a caress. Caleb shuddered, looking away. “Last chance, Damakos.”

“Fine. _Fine._ Here’s the truth, and I don’t think you’ll like it. Caleb’s been injecting my blood into his body. That’s how he’s stayed sane. Well, relatively sane. Sanity is a construct.”

Caleb shot Molly a _look_ under the table. Molly winked at him before looking back up at Trent, who had straightened and taken a step back, regarding Molly from a distance. 

“The ritual Veltov performed for you, the one that killed you and drove her mad. What was the purpose?”

Molly shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, that? That I genuinely have no idea about. The rest is coming back, but I can’t remember shit about that ritual. It’s absolutely maddening.”

“The ritual is in this book, is it not?”

“The ritual consumed it. Turned the pages to ash.” Molly’s sharp smile returned, fangs glinting in the candlelight. “Veltov was the only one who knew what it said, and she’s dead.”

Trent sighed. He turned to Astrid. “If he’s telling the truth—which, given his character, is unlikely—then we should harvest as much blood as we can right away. Should anything go wrong, I would like to have that security.”

Caleb pushed himself to his feet. This was all wrong. Molly wasn’t supposed to say these things, pushing the situation in the wrong direction. Caleb stood, swaying, still weak from the curse Astrid had cast on him, and took a deep, shaky breath. “He’s lying. I did not use his blood for anything.”

Astrid threw back her hood. Her dark hair was longer than Caleb remembered, falling to her chin as she shook it out. She retrieved the needle from under her cloak. “I’m going to see if he’s lying.”

Molly’s expression was caught between regret and apprehension. “Oh, darling, I don’t think that’s—”

Astrid grabbed one of his horns, forced his head back, and plunged the needle into his throat. He cried out, sharp and indignant. Caleb slammed one fist against the invisible walls surrounding him; a shock of arcane energy threw him back into the center of the runic circle. He swore loudly in Zemnian, picking himself up, wincing as fresh bruises bloomed across his shoulders and back. His hands went numb. He was shaking again. Trent was saying something, and Molly was yelling, but through the ringing in his ears, Caleb didn’t catch a single word.

“Give me a chance,” Astrid said. Caleb’s hearing returned just in time for him to comprehend her indignant pleas. “Let me prove myself to you.” She threw a dirty look at Caleb. “Look at him. He’s broken. Eodwulf’s not here. I’m as strong as, or stronger than, Bren ever was.” 

Trent nodded. “I advise you against injecting it all. We don’t know how potent it is.”

Molly laughed, shaky and hysterical. “Oh, that won’t do anything. A whole plungerful should get you through half a ritual, tops.”

Just as Astrid slipped the needle into a vein on her wrist and pushed the plunger down, Molly caught Caleb’s eye under the table. “ _Sorry,_ ” he mouthed. 

Astrid threw back her head and screamed, longer and louder than when Trent had forced shards of the Fateblade into her arms, pieces of her soul breaking free and swirling up in wisps of silver smoke. She fell to her knees, arms wrapped around herself. The needle’s plunger broke as her fist clenched, shards of glass scattering across the floor. She pulled out the tip of the needle and threw it across the room. In the dim light, Caleb watched lines of glowing red snake up her arm, tracing the pattern of veins and arteries under her skin.

Caleb found himself calling her name. He felt disconnected from himself, from the desperate, panicked person his body had become. “Astrid. _Astrid!”_ He swore loudly, switching to Zemnian, calling her name and pleading. All the while, Trent watched Astrid writhe and gasp and choke, blood running from her eyes, her nose, her mouth. After nine seconds, she went still. Caleb bowed his head, breathing hard, pain mixing with sadness and relief inside his chest.

Trent bent down and put two fingers on Astrid’s throat. He stood up, sighing. 

Caleb, who had fallen back to his knees, looked desperately up at him. “Is she… is she alive?”

“She is. Though without medical attention, not for long.” Trent turned back to Molly, who set his jaw and lifted his chin. Defiance shone in his eyes, the knowledge of impending pain and the desire to take it with grace.

When Trent didn’t immediately retaliate, Molly let out his breath in a long, low hiss. He shook his head, looking at Astrid with a mix of pity and disappointment. “She wasn’t strong enough to take it. It makes sense, though. Caleb has an affinity for fire, as you put it. Perhaps he has infernal ancestry. It’s possible. Or there could be other factors. Maybe he’s just better suited for this particular brand of magic.” He shrugged. “I apologize for damaging your apprentice, who clearly you care about very much.”

Trent’s posture shifted. Caleb’s heart sank at his soft tone: “I don’t care for things. I keep the world in balance, and the citizens of the Empire safe. Love is a disadvantage.” He looked at Caleb, meeting his gaze directly. Cold, calculating. Knowing. “Bren doesn’t understand that yet. And if he did, he wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Yes, well.” Molly’s flashed his teeth in a cutting grin. “I’m afraid the handsome wizard is morally obligated to save the fair Blood Hunter from the dungeons of the dangerous blood cult, should the opportunity arise.”

Trent glanced down at Astrid’s body. Nudging aside her robes with the toe of his boot, he revealed a pouch at her belt. He extracted a second, larger needle, and crossed to the highest shelf. It was cluttered with potions, jars, and vials of pickled who-knows-what. He picked a vial that appeared to be empty and stuck the tip of the needle through the cork, drawing the plunger back.

Caleb stood up, moving close to the edge of the arcane circle as Trent turned toward Molly. “What is that? Please don’t hurt him.”

“I’ve seen Lucien Damakos attempt to perform rituals from the Book of Bensozia; he was never able to get past the first few words before passing out, sometimes for days. Being on the receiving end of one permanently broke him.” Trent tapped the plunger. A bead of clear liquid slid down the needle and dripped onto the floor. “His usefulness is running out.” 

Molly, who hadn’t moved the entire time, watched with unveiled apprehension. Clearly, Trent was using some sort of holding spell on him. The thought made Caleb’s blood run cold. He shuddered, closing his eyes against a wave of helplessness, and fought the urge to slam both hands against the force-field until it shattered like a crystal cup.

Molly’s shoulders tensed as Trent bent over him. Trent grabbed a fistful of Molly’s hair, tilting his head back and to the side, exposing his pulse point. “This will hurt.” Trent’s voice was pleasantly conversational. “This will hurt a lot.”

Caleb held his breath, fists clenched, heart beating so hard his ribs ached. He wanted to beg, to plead, to do anything to stop this, but he couldn’t, because that’s what Trent wanted. 

Power. Control. The two things Caleb couldn’t give him.

Trent dragged the tip of the needle over Molly’s skin. A thin line of red welled up, a single drop of blood tracing the curve of Molly’s throat. But then Trent smiled, straightening up. “You were right, Damakos. Bren won’t fall for tricks or coercion. But you… I’ve seen what you will do to protect your _family._ ” The last word was mocking, cold. He turned toward Caleb, tracing the needle’s point with one finger. “You’ve shown your hand, and I think it’s time for you to fold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caleb and Molly in this chapter: Welcome back to me screaming! AAAAHHHHHHH
> 
> Trent in this chapter: Thanks for checking in; I'm still a piece of garbaaage!


	38. Part IIII: Chapter XXXVIII: Control and Compromise

****

**CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT**

****

**CONTROL AND COMPROMISE**

As Trent moved with deliberate slowness around the table, Caleb met Molly’s gaze, calm and steady. “It’s alright, Mollymauk. Everything will be alright.”

With a sweep of his hand, Trent banished the arcane circle. 

Caleb didn’t hesitate. He launched himself at Trent the instant the force-field faded. From the split-second look of shock on Trent’s face, he hadn’t expected this. Before Trent could raise his hands or utter a spell, Caleb wrapped both hands around Trent’s throat, the chains on his cuffs digging into his opponent’s trachea. 

_Come on! Come on, you’ve got this!_ The little voice was high and shrill as the heat of battle rushed through him. His heart pounded, adrenaline spiking his blood. He slammed his forehead into Trent’s, momentarily stunning them both. His fingers fumbled with the links of a small chain, securing it around Trent’s throat, and then—

A flash of golden light sent Caleb flying across the room. His back hit the alchemy table and he cried out, vision going white as pain raced down his spine. He curled forward, wincing, and tried to breathe through it. Judging by the debilitating pain shooting through his left shoulder, something was either dislocated or broken. He’d definitely broken some ribs on his left side. As his vision faded, the whiteness closing in, the voice in his head returned. _Not now, no time for this now, pull yourself together! Come on, you can do this. You can make it through this!_

Caleb shook himself. Setting his jaw and clenching his shaking hands into fists, he pushed himself to his feet, facing Trent across the laboratory. He couldn’t help but look past Trent to where Molly knelt, frozen in place, expression pained and furious; to where Astrid lay curled on the stone, parted lips crusted with black blood, cheeks streaked with red seeping from under closed eyes. Anger surged and he captured it, harnessing its power even as his legs threatened to give out. He braced himself on the alchemy bench, breathing fast and shallow.

Trent raised his hand and muttered something under his breath. Immediately, Caleb’s body seized up. He tried to move, to speak, to twitch a finger, but he was immobile, utterly helpless, breathless with adrenaline and fear.

“If you won’t perform this ritual for me, Bren, then what are you worth?” Trent drew the Fateblade. Caleb’s heart beat harder, faster. Trent smiled, soft, calculating. He stopped a few feet away and reached out, drawing the tip of the blade over Caleb’s skin, just under his jaw. “Narayah Veltov was weaker than I am. You know it’s true. So, I want to know: if Veltov managed to conduct these rituals by performing sacrificial ceremonies in the name of Bensozia, why can’t I? You’re powerful, Bren. You always have been. I imagine that the Queen of Hell may have a use for a powerful, broken soul like yours.” The tip of the Blade cut deeper, blood welling in its wake. Caleb wanted desperately to close his eyes, to look away, but he was frozen, exposed. Defenseless. 

“No,” Molly snarled, rough and desperate. “Don’t you _fucking_ dare.”

Trent drew another bloody line in Caleb’s skin, half an inch below the first. “Damakos said it himself: you may have infernal heritage, a natural affinity for fire. You would make a wonderful sacrifice.” Trent drew a third line. “It’s your choice, Bren. Obedience, or damnation. An easy decision for most people, but you are not most people, are you?” Trent’s smile slipped away. “You broke, Bren. You broke, and it cost you everything.”

“You bloody bastard.” Molly’s voice shook. Caleb couldn’t see him behind the table, but he knew exactly what expression Molly was wearing: violent as a cornered beast, furious with fear. “ _Kahvehrahshahk’ehthrahk vai ehk’ahrehsh bahrehk’ehsh, mahshahk’ehvohnahdrahv!_ ” 

Trent barely flinched as the vicious words hit him. He frowned but didn’t take his eyes off Caleb. “Language, Damakos. Remember what is at stake.”

Caleb felt the spell fade. He took a deep, shuddering breath, blinking rapidly as pain shot through his cracked ribs, running up and down his spine like lightning down a metal pole. When he spoke, his voice came out gravelly, strained. He sounded as desperate as he felt. “You need me. You have the Blade, but no idea how to use the Book or the Conduit. It does not matter how much power you have if you don’t know how to use that power.”

Trent didn’t reply. His expression was completely flat, unreadable. Then he shook his head, disappointment in his eyes. “I can find another mage to perform the ritual. But I wanted it to be you, Bren. You always showed so much promise. I made you so strong, so powerful. And yet here you are, broken, terrified. Useless. I expected so much more, but you have failed me in every possible way.” 

For a moment, Caleb fell back into memories as piercing and painful as the crystal shards Trent had stuck in his arms over a decade ago. He spiraled, mouth dry, hands numb, white nothingness rising around him as Trent pressed the Fateblade to his throat…

“I’ll do it!” Molly’s voice cut through the clinging memories, bringing Caleb back to the present. “I’ll tell you what I know about the Book, about Asmodeus, about everything. I… he doesn’t know what it means to die on the end of that fucking blade. I don’t beg, except under certain conditions that don’t apply to this situation, but I’m begging you now: let me reason with him. Let us decide this together. Give me a chance to change his mind before it all goes to shit.”

Caleb exhaled, and didn’t dare breathe in again. He wasn’t sure how many ribs he’d broken, but if any of them punctured a lung, he was in serious trouble. Trent was many things, but a healer wasn’t one of them.

Trent hesitated. Caleb watched satisfaction flicker in his eyes, a tiny smile twisting his lips. He turned away, sliding the Fateblade into the sheathe at his hip. “Good. I knew you would see sense eventually, Damakos. Your loyalty to your friends is astounding. If only I could command such devotion from you again.”

Molly’s voice was half a hiss. “I was never loyal to you. You saw an opportunity, and you took it. I had no choice. You used me, you manipulative son of a bitch, and you fucking know it. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Pretty words and promises work wonders on children. Because that’s what we were, Caleb, Astrid, Eodwulf, and I. I’m sure there are dozens, even hundreds more of us who you’ve corrupted, toyed with. You find birds with broken wings and lock them in gilded cages. You’re a monster, Ikithon. A fucking monster in white and gold silk, playing at being an angel.”

“Quite eloquent for you, Damakos.” Trent chuckled. “Unfortunately, you are not as charming as you think you are. Sometimes clever words are just words.”

As the Hold Person spell wore off completely, Caleb fell to his knees, stifling a cry of pain. He wrapped his uninjured arm around his midsection, pressing his palm gingerly to his broken ribs. He flinched, clenching his jaw, and looked up. For a brief moment, he met Molly’s eyes. _“_ Don’t, Mollymauk.” His voice was thick with pain. “It is not worth it. You know what he’s trying to do. Don’t let him have this.”

Molly was silent. He broke eye contact, looking down and away. Caleb saw the conflict on his face, raw and open as a fresh wound. 

Under the table, Trent’s booted feet moved back toward Molly. “You said you would tell me how Bren uses this book,” Trent said. His voice was soft and honeyed, yet it carried the threat of violence. “And the Conduit and the Fateblade. I imagine the ritual requires all three?”

“Veltov never had the Conduit,” Molly said. “Then again, Veltov went insane and ended up dead. I would remind you who’s responsible for that last bit, but I’m sure you already know.”

“Your threats don’t interest me. Either you tell me what you know in the next thirteen seconds, or I will be forced to resort to alternative options.” He touched the Fateblade’s hilt. 

Caleb shuddered, fighting the urge to flee. Even if he wanted to, even if he could justify leaving Molly alone at Trent’s mercy, he had the feeling he wouldn’t get five steps without collapsing. Ducking his head, he took a deep, shuddering breath. When he looked up, Molly was watching him, expression caught between fury and fear. “Mollymauk,” he whispered. “Please.”

Molly gave him the smallest nod. Something flashed across his face, an unnamable emotion akin to relief, or resignation. He looked up, past the tabletop to where Caleb knew Trent’s face must be. “Veltov always took my blood. I don’t know if that was _necessary_ , but she always did it. She’d use the Fateblade to do it. And then she’d open the Book and this white light would come out of her, and I’d pass out until it was over.”

“And Bren? How did he perform Veltov’s ritual?”

“He reversed it. He used a Comprehend Languages spell to read the Ancient Infernal, and…” _And didn’t use anything but the Book,_ Caleb heard the words that went unsaid.

Trent sighed, tapping one foot impatiently on the dark stone. “And what, Damakos?”

Molly raised his chin, eyes flashing in the lanternlight. “And he restored everything Veltov took away.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“So you remember me.”

Molly shuddered. “Oh, yes. It’s bits and pieces, but enough for me to want you dead as quickly and painfully as possible.”

Trent hummed thoughtfully. “Bren had the Conduit and the Book but left the Fateblade on Veltov’s corpse. Why?”

 _Because we didn’t know it was there!_

Caleb almost said this aloud, but decided against it. He stayed silent, waiting to see how Molly would reply.

“What can I say?” Molly shrugged. “Once Caleb reversed the ritual, we decided against taking the Blade. Too many bad memories for both of us. And to be honest, we had absolutely no idea what it really was. Thought it was some sort of sacrificial dagger, and nothing more.” 

“Disappointing, but not surprising. You and Bren have fallen so far. Both of you had so much power, once. A tragic loss for the Empire that you’ve chosen exile over redemption.” Trent lifted his chin, standing taller, and Caleb imagined for a moment that he could feel the power radiating from him, the cold, calm confidence and control. “You have a chance to redeem yourselves today. Your last chance. If you help me unleash this new weapon upon the enemies marching to our doorstep, I will make sure that both of your names are cleared.”

“ _Our_ names, or the names you won’t let us leave behind?” Caleb couldn’t help himself. “You made me commit terrible crimes, and for those crimes, Bren Ermundrud died. My name is Caleb Widogast. I am not the person you want me to be.”

Trent ignored him. Caleb couldn’t see his face, but heard the irritation thick in his voice. “The Xhorhasian armies are rallying, I’ve heard. Many tribes marching under a single banner. And they’re headed west, toward the Ashkeeper Mountains. How long until they bring their foul darkness down on Zadash? On Rexxentrum itself?”

“That darkness will fall on us all the faster if you release the powers of Hell on this plane,” Caleb gasped, wincing. Talking hurt. Every breath was agony, but he continued regardless. “Asmodeus is behind this. I have read enough of the Book of the Damned to know that, at least. I don’t know his ultimate goal, but I do know that magic like this should not be tampered with. You should know that better than anyone.”

Trent was silent for a long moment. “I will heal your wounds and promise you your freedom if you’ll help me with this one thing. I will call you by whatever name you choose. It doesn’t matter to me, in the end. All that matters is getting favorable results, and I know you are capable of giving me that. So what do you say, Caleb Widogast? Are you ready for redemption?”

Caleb clenched his jaw, speaking through gritted teeth. “I will conduct the ritual.”

“Good.” Trent’s smile matched his cold eyes. He grabbed the Book off the table and crossed to where Caleb stood leaning against the alchemy desk. He drew the Fateblade, and extracted the Twelfth Conduit from a bag on the table. He held out the Book, the Blade, and the Conduit like an offering. “For the Empire, Bren. Make me proud.”

“The ritual,” Caleb said. “Which one do you want me to demonstrate?”

“I thought that was obvious. I want you to perform the same ritual Veltov performed on Damakos.”

Caleb’s heart skipped several beats. “I, ahh… you mean you want me to… to removeMollymauk’s memories again?”

“It is the only way to redeem him. Veltov tried to bring back Lucien Damakos, but she didn’t know how. I can bring him back. I can make him whole again. But in order to do so, he must be an empty slate.”

Caleb swallowed the sickness rising in his throat. “That… that changes things.”

“That changes _nothing_.” Trent’s voice was sharp as broken glass. “Either you do this, Bren, or I kill you with the Fateblade and perform the ritual myself.”

“Then why don’t you?” Molly said. Caleb heard the terror barely concealed by anger. “Why don’t you fucking do it yourself, if it’s that easy? You need him. You need Caleb, whether you want to admit it or not, because he has something you don’t. He’s better than you, Ikithon. In every way.”

Trent flicked his hand, and Molly fell silent. “Bren. This is your last chance. What is your choice?”

Caleb held out shaking hands. He took the offered artifacts, cradling them as Trent crossed the room and retrieved a healing potion from the shelf. He offered it to Caleb, who downed it with a wince. He exhaled shakily as his bones reset and his bruises faded. He looked up at Trent, who smiled at him, commanding demeanor slipping away. 

“I’m ready.” Caleb’s voice broke. “I’ll do it.”

Trent gestured at Molly, who had a look of devastation and fear frozen on his face. “Shall I take his blood?”

Caleb nodded. He spread the Book before him, handing the Blade to Trent. “I need to concentrate on the Conduit. You must give me a moment.”

Caleb placed a shaking hand on the dodecahedron as Trent moved back around the table toward Molly. He closed his eyes, breathing through his nose, fighting to remain calm. At once the empty, dark world of the Conduit opened around him. He stood alone in the endless grey, his body numb, cold. Up ahead, a tiny speck of white shimmered, pulsating like a distant star. Caleb reached out and touched it. It burned, white-hot, pain shooting like lightning through his bones. For a moment he stood frozen, lost in the swirling nothing. And then his eyes flew open and he was back on his knees in Trent’s laboratory, clutching the Conduit in both hands. 

“Bring me the blood.” Caleb’s voice was harsh and two-toned. He felt like he should be surprised, or even horrified by the light creeping over his skin, but he felt nothing but the relentless, burning desire to continue, to draw out the power from the massive, ancient tome before him. Reaching out with surprisingly steady hands, he flipped open the Book. He turned to the correct page and exhaled, light spilling between his lips, swirling like smoke around his head. 

Distantly, he was aware of Trent handing him a vial of blood. He felt far away, disconnected from his body. Some hidden instinct took over, and he was a helpless passenger, immobilized by the desire burning in his veins like acid. Uncorking the vial, he tilted back his head and poured it into his mouth. He shuddered as the blood, thick and tangy, slid down his throat. At strange, violent sensation filled him. He was burning alive. The fires of Nine Hells rose around him, charring his bones, melting him from the inside out. He thought he might be screaming but couldn’t hear his own voice over the pounding of blood in his ears. He dropped the vial and it shattered into a thousand crystal shards. Ducking his head, he blinked rapidly until the blinding pain receded slightly.

“Come on.” Trent’s voice, faded and distant. “You can do this, Bren.”

Caleb’s eyes stung, blurring the Ancient Infernal written across the time-stained pages. He wiped his eyes on his bandaged arm, taking a shaky breath. 

_You can do this. It’s okay. It’ll all be okay._

He cast Comprehend Languages, and the ancient language of the Hells spilled between his lips, his voice wavering as the archaic letters squirmed like living things on the page. “ _Maayeehveehrk’aaeesh daayhmaahk’eeyaahth, k’eeyeehrk’ooyaah maayhraahkaaeeyoohsh…_ ”

Power surged through him. Whiteness filled his vision; he forced himself to continue even as the words shifted out of focus, dragging him into an abyss of pure light. Flames licked his fingertips. He wasn’t sure if he was on fire, or if he’d set the Book on fire. He wasn’t sure if he was alive, or dead, or something in between. He wasn’t sure if he was anything at all—disconnected, spinning through time, lost to reality. 

Light exploded from Caleb’s body. It filled the room, pouring out of his eyes, his open mouth. Someone was screaming. It was his voice, but he was separate, distant. He felt nothing. A gaping, empty pit opened in his chest. One step forward, and it would swallow him whole.

When he finally came back to himself, he was kneeling in front of Trent with the Book of the Damned spread before him. The ground was blackened. Trent’s white robes were singed around the edges, covered in the ashes of scrolls and papers drifting off the table and settling on the scorched ground. The only thing untouched was the Book itself, sitting amidst the rubble and ruin as if nothing had happened.

“Get up.” Trent held out a hand, and instinctively, Caleb took it. As he did, Caleb realized that the wrappings on his arms had burned away. His scars, shiny and white, glistened in the dying firelight. Trent pulled him upright, holding him steady with a hand on his shoulder. “Did it work?”

Caleb took a deep breath. “I won’t know until you release Mollymauk.”

Trent turned to Molly. He snapped his fingers, and Molly fell to his knees, gasping and blinking rapidly. “Lucien Damakos. Is that your name?”

Molly didn’t reply. Trent opened his mouth, but before he could speak a sharp pain shot through Caleb’s chest, causing him to gasp aloud, drawing Trent’s attention. Caleb collapsed, hands spread on the Book’s pages, vision going red. He tasted blood. Blood ran from his eyes, his nose, his parted lips. He cried out, wiping at his face, and ducked his head as Trent grabbed his shoulder in a vice-like grip. 

“Bren. _Bren._ Can you hear me?”

Slowly, Caleb nodded. “I… this didn’t happen before.”

Trent pulled back as Caleb continued to wipe at the blood with shaking, red-stained hands. “This is what happened to Damakos whenever he attempted a ritual. He would pass out and bleed for days. Sometimes it was weeks, or months, depending on the spell. It was too much for him. Apparently, it is still too much for you.” A tense, electric silence. “We can change that. We have the Fateblade, the Book, and the Conduit. And now I have a Caster. If you return to the service of the Empire, I promise I will convince my esteemed colleagues to forgive the crimes of your past. After all, you were a broken man, Bren. Your mind was not your own.”

 _And who’s fucking fault was that?_

Caleb blinked rapidly, trying to breathe through the stabbing pains in his chest and head. “ _Ja._ I will… I will return to the Empire’s service.” He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He looked past the singed table to where Molly and Astrid lay, one half-conscious, the other possibly dead. He prayed to any gods who might be listening that they would be alright once this was all over.

“Good.” Trent put a hand on Caleb’s arm. Caleb fought the urge to back away, to put his hand over Trent’s and burn the skin off his bones. “You will still be tried as a traitor. That cannot be avoided, unfortunately. The Assembly is not a dictatorship, and I can’t make that decision alone. But I promise that if you renounce your criminal ways and swear undying allegiance to the Empire before the council, we will welcome you back with open arms.” Trent lifted his chin, triumph in his eyes. “I knew you’d come back to me, Bren.”

Caleb swallowed hard. “And Mollymauk?” He couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice. 

Trent’s expression turned to disdain. “I will keep Damakos for myself. As for your other companions, there are conditions. If you want to return to the Empire’s service, you will be tested.” The beat of silence gave Caleb the chance to realize what Trent was going to say before he said it. “We will hunt down the group you’ve been travelling with—criminals, murderers, thieves. Enemies of the Empire. And when we do, you will interrogate and kill them. For the Empire.”

Caleb closed his eyes. He knew Trent could see the horror on his face, the weakness stirring like a dormant beast in his chest. He gritted his teeth, steeling himself, and reached for the cold, empty place that the light had come from, the void of white, fiery nothingness that lived inside him. 

He opened his eyes. “For the Empire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK how many of you have seen Episode 87, so all I will say is Oh Boy That Was A Lot. Is it Thursday yet?!
> 
> Only two more chapters!! The next one is an absolute monstrosity, though, so it's basically two in one. As always, a million thanks to everyone for supporting me via comments, kudos, and messages! And to all my silent readers, I love you so much, too! Thanks for sticking with this story to the (almost) finish. Love y'all! <3


	39. Part IIII: Chapter XXXIX: Golden Scales, Crown of Thorns

****

**CHAPTER THIRTY-NEIN**

****

**GOLDEN SCALES, CROWN OF THORNS**

“This is fuckin’ bullshit. We walked literally thousands of miles to get here, and you’re telling us to go away?” Beau threw up her hands, turning to Yasha with what she hoped was the most incredulously insulted expression humanly possible. “Can you even believe this, Your Imperial Majesty? What the _fuck._ ”

Yasha lifted an eyebrow. The corner of her mouth quirked up slightly at the use of her title. “Beau. Let me talk to them.”

Beau crossed her arms, frowning. “I fucking hate the Empire,” she muttered, stepping aside to give Yasha access to the gates of Rexxentrum. One of the guards glared at her. She glared right back until he coughed and looked away.

Yasha, dressed in rough, travel-stained Xhorhasian armor, didn’t exactly look like an empress. The way she held herself, poised and regal with just a hint of dangerous power, made up for it a hundred-fold. “I know it’s late, and that it’s your job to turn away unwanted visitors after dark.” Yasha glanced back at Beau. Beau gave her a thumbs-up. “But it’s important that we have an audience with the High King as soon as possible.”

The guard who’d glared at Beau narrowed his eyes, giving Yasha a slow, sweeping look. Beau gripped her staff and did her best not to look murderous. Judging by the other guard’s wary stare, her best wasn’t good enough.

“You’re Xhorhasian.” The glaring guard finished his visual search and reached for his blade. “If you think you can come into the city, let alone speak with the _King_ , you’re delusional at best.”

“And at worst?” Beau raised her eyebrows. He blinked, frowning, and she made a broad, sweeping gesture. “C’mon, man! If delusional is at best, what’s at worst?”

“It’s… it’s an expression.”

“I’ll tell you what’s at worst.” Beau moved up into the guard’s space. He took an uncomfortable step back. “Nationalism, and generally being a shitty person.”

“I—”

“Why don’t you just shut up and let me talk?” 

“Beau…” Yasha put a hand on Beau’s shoulder, her tone warning and soft.

Beau ignored her. “No, listen up, you jackass motherfuckers. This isn’t any old Xhorhasian. This is Yasha Nydoorin, Empress of the New Xhorhasian Alliance, leader of the forces of Greater Xhorhas. Twenty-seven tribes march under her banner. Right now they’re waiting east of the Ashkeeper Peaks for our return, ready for war.” She paused for dramatic effect, taking in the shocked, slightly horrified looks of the guards. 

“She doesn’t mean—” Yasha began, but Beau interrupted.

“Yeah, no, I don’t mean war with the Empire. I just thought that sounded cool.” She paused, feeling a little awkward. This time, no one interrupted her, so she forged ahead. “The darkness covering this whole continent? It won’t stop.” She pointed at the sky, which was slowly turning black despite the bright summer sunlight spilling through wispy clouds. “Look at this shit. It’ll reach Rexxentrum in what, a day? Two?” She looked at Yasha, who shrugged. Beau turned back to the guards, gesturing widely at herself and Yasha. “Y’know what’s good news? Some people know what this thing is, and who’s causing it. Y’know who those people are?” The guards shrugged, looking at each other in confusion. Beau leaned in, spreading her arms as if speaking to a whole crowd. “It’s not you!”

Yasha sighed. “It’s us,” she said.

“It’s us,” Beau repeated, triumphant and emboldened by what she thought had been a pretty rousing speech-slash-verbal-beatdown. “So boom, fuckers. That’s why you need us.”

The guards looked at each other again. One shrugged, looking uncomfortable. The other wore an expression of weary wariness and barely veiled disdain. “What’s the protocol for the Empress of Xhorhas showing up on our doorstep?” he said.

“I mean… we could go get a captain. Or even a general. They’d know what to do.”

The first guard sighed, clearly relieved. “Good idea. You watch them, and I’ll go consult an authority.” 

As the guard walked back through the city gates and disappeared into the growing night, Beau crossed her arms, smirking. She leaned against Yasha, who put an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, Yasha. You think I’d make a good diplomat?”

“Absolutely not,” said Yasha. “But you’re an excellent general.”

★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★ ◇ ★

Trent Ikithon wasn’t used to losing. All his life, he had been sure of himself, of the world and his place in it. Every time he won, every little victory, filled him with a quiet, immense sense of power. However, he didn’t consider himself power-hungry. He couldn’t stand people grasping at the impermanent threads of temporary titles. There was no point in such pettiness. When it came down to it, real power—deep, permanent power—came from the ancient magics of forgotten arcane ages. Power that, when harnessed and wielded by the right hands, could make mortals into gods.

It was that power that Trent sought with the patient determination that had defined his career. Time was inconsequential. There were artifacts that could change it, shift it. Destroy it. Trent knew this, and so he was willing to wait. He was willing to change his plans, to adjust to changing circumstances and situations.

He was not willing to lose.

° ° °

The trial was held in the largest meeting space the Academy had to offer. It was a large round room, its curving walls lined with staggered rows of velvet-covered chairs. The ceiling was high and domed, adorned with many shimmering crystal lanterns burning with eternal arcane light. Trent stood on the raised dais at one end of the room. Seated behind him was the entirety of the Cerberus Assembly, murmuring discontentedly as the rest of the Academy—students and lesser-known mages, as well as a few strategically-placed guards—filed into the room. The last of the attendees took their seats. Trent crossed the dais and stood behind the podium. As the curved double doors on the opposite side of the room swung inward and Bren Ermundrud entered the room, cuffed and escorted by two Crownsguards, Trent had never felt more powerful.

The guards stood stiff and silent as Bren stopped before the dais. Up close, Trent noticed the shadows under his apprentice’s eyes, the weariness he carried in every tense line of his body. And yet, under the dirt and the bruises and the pain, there was something there. A spark, tentative and small, flickering in unreadable blue eyes.

Trent cleared his throat. He magnified his voice, casting it over his watchful audience. “As the Archmage of Civil Influence,” he began, “it is my solemn duty to bring to justice those who would tarnish the face of our great and glorious Empire. These trials are not for common criminals, deserters, or even foreign assassins.” He looked down, trying and failing to meet Bren’s downcast gaze. “These trials are for traitors.”

A wave of murmuring rippled through the crowd. Trent lifted his chin, smiling grimly. “Fortunately, this particular traitor is someone I know well. I trained him, and that training cost him his sanity. In fact, it is rather unfair to call him a traitor. It is likely he didn’t even know he was betraying the Academy, the Empire, when he fled from us. 

“Sane or not, he has great potential. He was once a great man, and a great mage.” He waited for the murmuring to die down again. “I therefore beseech my fellow mages to look kindly on him, and to listen to what he has to say. I think you will find there is more to his story than his crimes.”

Trent looked around the room, then turned to face the other magi. The archmagi of the Assembly were oddly silent, staring at him with rapt attention. He met their eyes one by one, nodding at some and smiling politely at others. Just the right amount of politeness and distance—the perfect recipe for political success. He turned back to the podium, placing both hands on the polished mahogany stand. “We will hear your confession now, Bren Ermundrud of Blumental.”

For a long moment, Bren didn’t move. He stared blankly at the floor, hands clenched, shoulders hunched. And then, with almost deliberate slowness, he raised his head and met Trent’s eyes.

“Citizens of the Empire.” Bren’s voice filled the room, strong and sure. He tilted his chin up and set his shoulders. For a moment, Trent saw the soldier he should have been, a leader and warrior with fire at his fingertips and ice in his eyes. “Students of the Solstryce Academy, officials of the royal court, and magi of the Cerberus Assembly.”

Silence echoed through room. The air was charged, as if a storm were about to break. Everyone collectively held their breath. Trent realized he was, too; with a huff of irritation, he exhaled fully.

“This is the trial of Trent Ikithon,” said Bren, “and I am here to bring him to justice.”

The storm broke like waves on a rocky shore. The murmurs became cries of confusion, of disbelief and accusation. Bren raised his hand, and to Trent’s surprise, the voices died down to a murmur. “Please,” said Bren. “Let me do this. Let me tell you what this man has done.”

Trent gripped the edges of the podium. “This is an outrage,” he said, with as much poise and dignity as the situation allowed. “We are here to hear your confession, not listen to your delusional ravings.”

Bren continued as if Trent hadn’t spoken. As if, in a room full of strangers, Trent was the only one he didn’t know. “This man has manipulated, murdered, and tortured. He has lied and schemed and plotted against his fellow magi. He has used his power—physical, political, and arcane—to get to a place where he can spend his days working on projects that, should the Cerberus Assembly ever hear of them, would smear his good name through the dirt and likely result in his position within the Academy, and within the Assembly, being terminated.” Bren still hadn’t broken eye-contact. Trent felt trapped, exposed. The fire in Bren’s eyes entered his mind and slid through his veins; for one brief, terrible second, he was sure he was burning alive.

Bren turned to face the crowd. “I would list all of his crimes, but they are too numerous to recount here.” Bren looked past Trent to the other archmagi. “I am a well-read man. I have spent more hours poring over books than I have holding proper conversations.” Bren swallowed; when he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. “I have read about many horrible things. Battles, assassination, murders, and cataclysmic events. But they pale in comparison to the memories I cannot escape, which were put in my head by Trent Ikithon.”

“That is a bold claim.” Trent barely controlled the anger in his voice, his hands shaking as he clenched them into fists. “Where is your evidence? Where is your proof?”

“I am not talking about false memories, although he has used those against me, too. The memories that haunt me are real. I was a boy, when I went away to the Academy. Trent took me under his wing—me, and two other adolescents from Blumental. We were told we had great potential, that we were born to do great things. _Do it for the Empire,_ they told us— _he_ told us—and we obeyed without question.

“But then our final test came. To prove our loyalty, Trent planted false memories in our heads, and told us that our parents were plotting rebellion against the Empire.” Tears shone on Bren’s face, falling like summer rain. Bren didn’t wipe them away. He stood tall, broken but unbowed. “He told us to kill them, and we did. Eodwulf murdered his parents directly. Astrid poisoned hers. And I…” He paused, voice breaking, and closed his eyes for a long moment. “…I burned my parents alive in the house where they raised me.”

Another murmur slipped through the crowd like a plague, rising and falling as shock filled the room. Trent fought the urge to run. He would not turn tail. He would not let Bren get the better of him. He would stay dignified; he would stay in control.

He would not lose to the man he had made.

“There are many other things Trent Ikithon has done. Not only to me, but to others like me. Trent is not a young man. I am sure that, in his long life, he has done unimaginable things, all in the name of loyalty—of protecting a country rather than its people.”

Trent slammed a hand down on the podium. His control was slipping; he could feel it draining away like sand from a broken hourglass. “None of this is true.” He whirled to face the Assembly. They were watching him with a mixture of disgust and grim resignation. Anger filled his chest, fueled by fear. The world was falling out from under his feet. There was nowhere to run. “Where is the evidence? Where is the proof!” Trent turned and leaned over the podium, energy building in his fingers, surging through his body in crackling waves of electric fury. Under his hands, the podium creaked and bent. “I took you and made you great. I gave you a purpose, and access to power that most wouldn’t even dream of possessing. And this—” he swept a hand at the silent crowd, “—this is how you choose to repay me?”

Trent felt Bren’s gaze on his face, tracing every line and plane. Memorizing the fear creeping into his features. He did his best to reign in his fury, to regain the careful calm he carried like a shield. 

“Not only did Trent force us to kill our parents, but while we were under his protection, he performed horrific experiments on us.” Bren raised his arms, palms up, and the scars littering his forearms gleamed in the torchlight. “He stuck shards of crystal into our bodies. He forced us to perform rituals that could have killed us, or worse.” Bren lowered his arms, and the crowd raised their voices again, crying out, furious and indignant. Their anger was no longer directed at Bren. “I would tell you that Trent Ikithon is a despicable man, but that is not true. He is not a man. He is a monster.”

Trent’s fingers itched. He wanted to call on the power surging through his body, to draw lightning from the sky and strike Bren down. He wanted to send a bolt of pure energy through this insubordinate, traitorous man who dared address the people of the Dwendalian Empire as an equal. But instead he kept up the facade, forcing a small, sad smile. “I told you that he was driven mad,” Trent said. He sighed, shaking his head. “It is a shame. Such a bright young mind, a flame that went out too soon.”

“I have called myself a monster.” Bren’s voice broke. He cleared his throat and carried on. “I believe that to be true, and it will be a long time before I don’t. But I know that, with time, wounds become scars.” Bren raised his chin, and for the first time since the trail had begun, he addressed Trent directly. “I will always carry these scars that you have given me. It will take time, yes, but I have plenty of that.” A small, secret smile. “Not all endings are written. I cannot predict the future, but I can tell you this: I am done surviving. I will live a life, even if I never forget what I’ve done. What you made me do. And someday—” a heavy pause, “—someday, Master Ikithon, you will be a footnote to my story. And your story? It is already over.”

Bren paused. He ducked his head. The room fell deadly silent, holding a collective breath. When his head came up, there was fire in his eyes, brighter than the summer sun. “You asked for evidence.” Bren opened his filthy coat. From beneath it, he extracted a bundle wrapped in the most ostentatious, frilly pink scarf Trent had ever seen. Bren held it up like an offering to an unseen god. “Here is your evidence.”

Trent’s heart stopped. His mouth went dry. _No. It can’t be!_

“All of your notes, your plans, your spells and careful calculations. Your sub-par drawings of artifacts, which are arguably more heinous than the rest of the notes combined.”

A surprised titter rose from the crowd. Smiles, brief and bemused, flashed in the torchlight. Trent blinked, caught like a moth before a flame, and stared in growing horror at the bundle in Bren’s hands. “No,” he whispered. “Lies, all of it! I am being framed. You can’t prove that those notes belong to me.”

“ _Nein,_ ” said Bren. “But I don’t need to.”

The room around them disintegrated. The walls shifted and the ceiling rose, ornate décor becoming regal. The room widened, expanded, revealing hundreds— _thousands_ —more people watching from either side of the gold-carpeted aisle. Wild with panic, Trent looked around the room. He recognized the faces of court officials, of dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies. Generals and captains of the guard, soldiers and peasants and diplomats and there, seated to the right on a raised seat covered in jewels, was High King Bertrand himself.

Bren’s secret half-smile returned. “They were watching us yesterday when you interrogated me and Mollymauk, when you watched your former student, Astrid, nearly die and did nothing to stop it. You are powerful, yes, but there is magic that is beyond even you. It’s easy to believe you are in one place, when really you are in another.” Bren swept a hand around the room. “As for the rest, every member of the Assembly who you have manipulated, whose minds you have planted false memories in, are free of your influence. You were right. I learned how to perform the ritual that Narayah Veltov used on me in the asylum, the one she used to expose the false memories you planted in my head.” The half-smile slid away. “All the magi whose minds you’ve poisoned have been released from your influence by the ritual you made me conduct.” A beat of deafening silence. “You said that love is a weakness, but if you understood love, you would’ve known I would never betray my friends, not even to save my own life.” Bren’s eyes blazed, furious with fire. “You have shown your cards, Trent Ikithon. And I believe it is time for you to fold.”

Trent’s vision narrowed. His chest tightened. His heart beat so fast he thought it would explode, that his blood would burst and all his power would come rushing out. He opened his mouth, but the clever words wouldn’t come. He was frozen. Helpless, exposed, a bug in a collector’s case.

The double doors at the end of the vast hall burst open. Trent squinted into the blinding light pouring through like the final flare of a dying star. 

Framed between the doors were six silhouettes. Across the distance, Trent couldn’t make them out, but as they strode toward Bren, he recognized the two women dressed in Xhorhasian garb. He had met them at the Harvest Festival what felt like a lifetime ago, back before all his great plans came crashing down.

Beside the Xhorhasian woman was Lucien Damakos, coat no longer ragged and bloody, his eyes bright and clear. He wore a roguish smile and enough jewelry to fill a dragon’s lair. Trent felt a surge of rage at the sight—a Blood Hunter and a Xhorhasian walking down the Hall of Kings as if they were worthy of all the gems on the King’s throne.

Of the last three figures, Trent recognized two. He knew the blue tiefling woman and the half-orc man who had trained at the Academy for a few brief months, but the little goblin girl was unfamiliar. He knew who she was, however. Anger rose in his throat like bile.

The rag-tag party fanned out around Bren, forcing his guards to move aside. Bren handed the documents, still wrapped in the frilly scarf, to one of the guards. He murmured something and the guard nodded, turning and walking away down the hall. Slinking out from between the blue tiefling and the monk, the goblin grabbed Bren’s hand and dragged him into the center of the half-circle. 

The High King rose from his throne. A hush, deeper than any before it, fell over the room. “Trent Ikithon.” The King’s voice, worn with age but strong enough to command the utmost respect and attention, rang through the room. “How do you plead?”

Fury like nothing he had ever felt coursed through Trent, ripping apart his control and escaping through his fingers. The podium shattered. “I will not plead!” he screamed. “I am innocent! What I did, I did for the Empire! Can’t you see that? I did what I had to do to protect us. To make us stronger! We all make sacrifices for the greater good. Can’t you see that?”

“Yeah, well.” The monk of the Cobalt Soul crossed her arms and smirked up at him. “Maybe you should make your own sacrifices instead of, y’know. Other people’s.”

Trent clenched his fists. For a moment, the room shuddered as magic flowed through him. Behind him, the archmagi of the Cerberus Assembly rose as one. All across the room, the onlookers gained their feet, and the magic in his veins sputtered and died. Ten thousand eyes watching him. Judgement hung, thick and choking, in the room.

Trent’s wild eyes fell on Lucien Damakos. Damakos smiled, flashing his fangs. “In this room,” he said, “there’s not a soul who would save yours.”

Trent snarled. “You traitorous whore.”

Damakos held up a bejeweled finger. “Wrong. Whores are paid for sex. I do it for fun.”

The monk-in-Xhorhasian-armor elbowed Damakos in the ribs. “Don’t ruin the moment, you dick.”

Damakos put a hand on the monk’s shoulder and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. 

She batted him away. “Eww, gross, Molly! Get off.”

“You love me.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, or I swear to the gods—”

“No, you swear _at_ the gods. There’s a difference.”

The half-orc cleared his throat loudly. Damakos and the monk, seemingly realizing they were standing at the center of the most important political trial in the recent history of the Dwendalian Empire, immediately fell silent. The monk looked irritated. Damakos looked quietly amused.

The High King raised a hand. Four guards marched onto the dais. Two grabbed Trent’s arms, the others drawing spears and aiming them at him from a short distance away. Trent fought, screaming, as they secured rune-covered anti-magic bands around his wrists. His powers surged and his blood burned. It was trapped inside him, all this rage, this power, this _potential…_

“Trent Ikithon.” King Bertrand raised a hand, and silence fell. “I sentence you to death. You will be executed for your crimes against the Dwendalian Empire, unless your innocence can be proven before your assigned execution date.” Silence fell. “My word is final. The sentence is passed.”

“Yes, it is!” cried the blue tiefling. She held up a piece of paper, waving it wildly, and pointed at the golden seal at the bottom of the page. It was, Trent realized with a burst of confusion, his own seal. “You _literally_ signed your own death warrant.” The tiefling burst out laughing. “This is so funny, you guys. The Traveler is totally laughing at this right now, I know it.”

“I didn’t sign anything!” Trent wrenched one arm free. The guards grabbed him and forced him back into place. Trent struggled uselessly for a moment, snarling with rage, then went limp. “You bitch, you stole that from my office. I remember you now.”

“I know, I bet you totally remember me, because I was so good at magic and all that training and stuff. I mean, now that you aren’t going to be there anymore, maybe I’ll go to the Academy for real!” She put her hand on the half-orc’s arm. He sighed, drawing a hand over his face, clearly trying to hide the deep green blush rising in his cheeks. He muttered something inaudible, and the monk snickered and bumped her shoulder against his.

“We were spies,” the tiefling continued. “But now that we’re not spies anymore, I can tell you who I really am. My name is Jester Lavorre, and my mom is the Ruby of the Sea. I bet a _looooot_ of people in this room know her.” She laughed, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “But anyway, yes, I stole from you. Me and Fjord—this is Fjord, by the way; his real name isn’t actually Oskar—infiltrated the Academy and stole _aaaall_ those notes from your creepy torture dungeon. We’re basically famous super spies now, you guys.”

“I feel like being famous defeats the purpose of being a spy,” the monk said. “I mean, aren’t famous spies just spies who are bad at their jobs?”

The blue tiefling frowned. “Oh no, you actually have a really good point, Beau. Oh well, though! We’re not _actually_ spies anymore, technically, so it’s fine!”

Up on his high seat, the High King cleared his throat. “I officially declare this trail to be over. The defendant has been found guilty. The sentence is unnegotiable.”

Trent turned and met Bren’s eyes. Bren hadn’t looked away since the sentence had been passed. “Will you kill me yourself?” Trent sneered. He knew how he looked, vicious and cornered, wild animal in a trap.

Bren shook his head. “You made me a murderer before. You will not do so again.” He turned away. The goblin girl grabbed one of his hands, and Damakos took the other. As they walked away down the hall, their companions flanking them on all sides, Bren looked back at Trent one last time. Again, Trent got the distinct feeling that Bren was memorizing him. Or rather, memorizing this moment—this victory, this triumph.

_I will not lose to this man._ Conviction and resolve washed over Trent, and with the last of his fading strength, he broke free of the guards and leapt from the dais, white and gold robes swirling around him like a reaper’s cloak. From under his robes he pulled the Fateblade. It gleamed in the candlelight; a gasp went up from the crowd as he launched himself down the hallway toward the retreating backs of Bren Ermundrud and his companions.

The Blade sank into Bren’s back, into his spine and out through his chest. Bren let out a gasping cry as the Blade’s tip emerged between his ribs, slicing through muscle and bone. He fell to his knees, pressing both hands to the bloody wound. Trent took a step back, victory surging in his veins.

The goblin girl wailed, and Lucien Damakos screamed. The half-orc yelled something, but it was inaudible over the heart-wrenching cries of the blue tiefling, and the monk’s creative cussing. It was a terrible cacophony of sound, like nothing Trent had ever heard. He’d seen thousands of interrogations and conducted hundreds more himself, but nothing came close to the pain and rage and heartbreak he saw on the faces of Bren’s companions. The goblin wrapped her arms around Bren, sobbing into his bloodied chest, clinging to his hand and begging him not to leave her. The Xhorhasian woman held Damakos back as he fought and cursed, until he turned and pressed his face to her shoulder, visibly shaking. The blue tiefling fell to her knees next to Bren, putting her hands on his chest, chanting what sounded like a desperate prayer in Infernal. All around the little group, a roar went up from the crowd. Trent knew he had seconds before the guards grabbed him again. 

He didn’t care. Let them take him, beat him, kill him. He had won. 

One last time, he had won.

° ° °

It started as a sharp ache in his spine that spread through his veins like liquid fire. Trent gasped, inhaling sharply, and clutched at his chest. He staggered back. As he did, his body went numb from the middle of his chest down. Blood poured down his front, white robes turning crimson, and he screamed as the coppery liquid gushed between parted lips.

He fell to his knees, watching in horror as Bren reached back and pulled the Fateblade out of his spine. Slowly, Bren rose to his feet. In one hand he held the Blade, in the other, a glimmering length of fine bronze chain.

Trent raised his hands to his throat and found a silver chain dangling around his neck, so light and thin he could barely feel it. He fumbled for the clasp, but it slipped through his fingers like silk. For a moment he was more confused than anything, and then he remembered: Bren had attacked him, back in the laboratory. He had taken Trent by the throat, eyes wild with blue fire, crazed by anger and fear. Trent’s vision blurred as he breathed blood. _He wasn’t crazy at all_. _He planned this. He planned all of this._ And in that moment, he finally understood. 

Bren pocketed the bronze chain. He handed the Fateblade to the half-orc, who took it with a look of distrust and apprehension. Bren approached Trent, looking solemnly down at him. “You said there were no weapons on Zoran’s body that I could use to hurt you.” The hint of a satisfied smile. “I have read the Book of the Damned. I know what the Siphon of Asmodeus can do. And now, so do you.

“You think I’m broken,” he continued. “And I am. But now, I am one piece of seven, and together, we are whole. Fjord and Jester, they wrote you that letter from Torrent. Cree located them in Rexxentrum after Zoran kidnapped Mollymauk, and they told me what they had done. Tyffial led me to Torrent’s headquarters, and Jester used Sending to tell me when you and Astrid had arrived. Nott and Tyffial acted as lookouts and arranged an escape plan in case things went wrong, which they almost did. I lost contact with Nott mid-mission, and then there was that explosion, but everything turned out alright in the end. Sometimes the best plan is no plan. It leaves more room for improvisation.” Bren shot the blue tiefling a conspiratorial look. She flashed a cheerful smile, and Trent got the distinct impression that Bren had just quoted her. 

“Meanwhile,” Bren said, “my other friends, Beauregard and Yasha, came from Xhorhas to make peace with the Empire, casting aside the petty rivalries you call war. And Nott—” he indicated the goblin girl, “—was there the whole time I was locked in your laboratory, speaking to me in my mind. Encouraging me, guiding me. Keeping me sane.” Bren paused, flexing his hands, fingertips glowing like live coals. “As for Mollymauk, you saw what he endured, and he was the only one unaware of the plan.” A softness crept into Bren’s voice, and for the briefest moment, he genuinely smiled. “Trust, loyalty, love. These are the things that keep the world in balance, and the citizens of the Empire safe. Cruelty is a disadvantage.” Bren met Trent’s gaze directly. “If you understood that, Trent Ikithon, you would not be damned.”

Bren reached into his coat. He pulled out a card, bent and bloodstained and worn with time, and pressed it into Trent’s limp hand. Bren’s skin burned, hot as fire against Trent’s skin. “This is my redemption,” Bren said. “I am more than what you made me.”

As Bren straightened up and turned back toward his wide-eyed, incredulous companions, Trent bared his bloodstained teeth in a vicious snarl. “You’ve forgotten your place, Bren.”

Bren looked back at him. He smiled again, and although the expression was faint, it reached his eyes. “No,” he said. “I have found it.”

As Caleb Widogast walked away, his friends surrounding him in a protective half-circle, Trent looked down at the card. 

He turned it over.

_Justice, reversed._ An elegant woman with a crown of thorns, holding up a set of golden scales. One side of the scales dipped low, the other rising. The woman’s face bled where the thorns pierced her skin, red hair falling around her face like a wreath of flame. Her icy eyes followed him as he let the card fall. 

Whiteness pressed in on the edges of Trent’s vision. Distantly, he heard people shouting, felt hands on his shoulder, forcing him to the ground. He collapsed on his back, staring up as blood thickened in his throat and spilled from his mortal wound. His sight faded. Light filled his mind, burning, blinding, painful. Voices faded to a vacant hum. Sensation fled, his body numb, his mind suspended in a sea of white.

The last thing he saw was a white-eyed devil wrapped in a cloak of fire, looking down at him with an expression of deep disdain. Behind her was a red devil seated on a throne of polished bone. The white-eyed devil reached for him. She touched his chest, and with a last violent gasp, his soul tore free.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternative title for this chapter was "Trial and Errors" but I didn't know if stupid wordplay and emotionally intense criminal trials went together, so I went for something a little classier and more symbolic instead lmao
> 
> This chapter was originally a lot longer but I ended up cutting some parts out to streamline it more. Sometimes less is more, and in this case, I think that's true. :) So yeah! Only one chapter left now, and it's more of an epilogue than anything. And then on to book #2, which is currently partially outlined and entirely unwritten (I am lazy and also unmotivated because it's the holidays but I will eventually write it, I promise!)
> 
> As always, y'all are fucking amazing and I appreciate all the feedback and encouragement I've received from people reading this fic. I hope you enjoyed this climactic chapter and found it as satisfying to read as it was to write, haha! I love you all so much! You're the real MVPs. <3 <3 <3


	40. Part IIII: Chapter XL: The Magician and the Moon

****

**CHAPTER FORTY**

****

**THE MAGICIAN AND THE MOON**

Mollymauk stood on the Tower of Rexxentrum and thought about the end of the world. In the city below, an impromptu gathering had formed around the palace of King Bertrand. Civilians, soldiers, officials, students, magi, foreign dignitaries from far-off corners of Wildemount. The news of Trent Ikithon’s death had spread like wildfire. The face of the Empire fallen, disgraced and driven mad by his lust for power and immortality. And as if that wasn’t enough, the arrival of the newly-crowned Empress of Xhorhas (a title that Yasha refused to claim, insisting she didn’t want any pomp or fanfare) and her Consort General (Molly still couldn’t get over _that_ title, especially given who it was attached to) in Rexxentrum had sent the whole realm into a political frenzy.

It wasn’t politics that Molly cared about. Tilting his head back, he watched the darkness creeping across the sky, blocking out the stars. At the edge of night, the moon hung like a silver jewel. A full moon, bright and glorious. _Vehrahk’ash-kahvehrahk’ai,_ Molly thought. A midnight sun.

“Mollymauk?”

Molly smiled. He folded his arms on the tower’s parapets, resting his chin on his forearms. He glanced over his shoulder. “Well hello, Mister Caleb. How did you know I’d be here?”

Caleb stood hesitantly at the top of the stairway, Frumpkin cradled in one crooked arm, an unreadable look on his face. “I know you,” he said.

Molly laughed. “Better than I know myself, it seems.” He pushed off from the parapets and turned, leaning against the wall with one leg crossed in front of the other. He tilted his head, giving Caleb a sweeping look. After the trial, Caleb had washed himself, allowing Nott and Jester to dress him in fine robes of red and gold. He looked like a prince, Molly thought. A phoenix rising from the ashes.

“I understand that diplomatic meetings often run long,” Caleb said, joining Molly at the edge of the tower. He set Frumpkin down, and the cat stalked away down the parapets, gracefully navigating the uneven wall. “But they have been in there for nearly a full day.”

Molly turned and shifted closer to Caleb, folding his arms on the parapets again. “Beau must be so fucking bored. Trapped in a room full of Dwendalian officials and diplomats? She won’t last another hour.”

Caleb shook his head. “I would give ten gold to be a fly on that wall.”

Molly smirked. He shook his head and turned away, looking out past the city at the creeping darkness. The stars blinked out one by one. The moon rose to meet the endless night. “What happened to the Fateblade? And the Conduit, and the Book.”

“They are in the palace vaults.” Caleb didn’t sound happy about it. Molly shot him a sideways look and found him frowning deeply. Caleb sighed, running a hand over his face. “It is temporary. Just until we figure out a better solution.”

“That’s fair.”

Caleb was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Your mother was there.”

Molly couldn’t hide his surprise. “At the meeting with the king?”

“ _Nein,_ no. Before the trial, when I was locked up. She came to visit me in my cell.” Caleb gestured to the growing crowd at the base of the tower. “I saw her again, afterward, outside the palace. She was looking for you. I told her I had not seen you since the night of the trial.”

“I needed some time alone to think,” Molly said. Something curled in his chest—a cold, white, nameless thing. “No, that’s not right. To _remember._ ”

“And what have you remembered?”

Molly shrugged. The white creature stirred, showing its teeth. “I know what the ritual was for.”

From the look on Caleb’s face, there was no need to specify _which_ ritual. “You do not have to tell me, Mollymauk. But if it is important, if it would be dangerous not to, then I would appreciate it if you did.”

“Oh, I was planning on it. I trust you, remember?”

Caleb ducked his head, hiding his face in shadow. “ _Ja._ I remember.”

“The ritual you performed when Trent was interrogating us, it brought it all back. Well, not _all_ of it. Whatever happened while I was… dead? Is that the right word? Still not sure on the specifics of that. But anyway, whatever happened after Narayah Veltov cast that ritual in the woods three years ago, it’s a blank slate. Nothing there. However, I do know what I was _trying_ to do, and I don’t think you’ll like it. Hells, I don’t think anyone would like it.”

Caleb was watching him. Molly felt the heat of his gaze on the side of his face. He wanted to look at him, but was afraid. Afraid that if he did, Caleb would see through him to the sick, terrified creature living in his chest. So instead he stared out over the city and let the words flow like blood from a wound. “My mother traded my soul for my life. She made a deal with the devil, quite literally. Asmodeus and his consort, Bensozia, raised me. There were eight others, all tieflings. Nine of us all together, trained to be weapons.” He shot Caleb a sideway look. Caleb wasn’t watching him anymore. “I managed to escape. Or leave. I’m not sure. But the others? They all died on the way out. One by one, until it was just me.” 

Caleb set his jaw. Slowly, he nodded. “I understand.”

“Better than anyone,” Molly agreed. He looked back at the flickering, dying stars, and sighed. “I made it to the mortal planes, but after that, I realized I had nobody and nothing to rely on. So I tracked down people who could do what I can do, Blood Hunters and demon hunters, mostly. That led me to Torrent, and for a while I worked for them, doing their dirty work, killing and training and doing whatever I could to stay alive. After I fell out with Torrent, my closest companions and I formed our own cult. And yes, it was a cult, I’ll be the first to admit it.”

“I don’t think anyone will debate that point.”

Molly grinned, tail tip flicking. “Feeling very honest today, are we?”

Caleb didn’t reply, but out of the corner of his eye, Molly caught the faintest hint of a smile. 

“We looked everywhere for the Fateblade. Cree, Tyffial, Otis, Zoran, Jurrel, and three others we lost along the way. We knew it’d been buried in one of the tombs of Asmodeus’s followers, so we searched, tearing apart tomb after tomb, until we found it. Torrent came after us.” He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as memories flooded back. “I did things I regret, but I kept them safe until we figured out where the Blade was, and that’s all that matters.”

Caleb wore an expression of raw, open emotion. Molly glanced at him, and Caleb immediately looked away. “I understand.”

“I didn’t have it as bad as you, Caleb. He tortured you, manipulated you, changed your memories and made you kill for him.”

“ _Ja,_ he did all those things. But he is dead, and I am here.”

“Yes,” Molly said. “You are, aren’t you?”

A long silence. Caleb swallowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He had a faraway look in his eyes. “You found the Fateblade. Rakasha had the Book, correct?”

“That’s right. I had two of the pieces. I found a caster—Veltov—and assembled the Tombtakers in the most remote patch of Wildemount I could find. I thought I had it all. The Blade, the Caster, and the Book.”

“You didn’t have the Conduit.”

“No, I didn’t, and I think that’s why it went wrong.”

“Did you know about it? The Conduit?”

“I’d read about it, but I didn’t know how important it was.”

Caleb was silent for a moment, expression thoughtful. “I read that it belonged to Asmodeus, that he created it as a token of his power. To store and channel that power, and to communicate with his followers on the mortal planes.”

“Tyffial told a similar story. She said there’s one on each level of the Hells, one for each archdevil.”

Another thoughtful silence. “The Empire had it.”

“And someone from Xhorhas attempted to steal it, yes. It’s likely that Ikithon had been searching a long time for it, and that it was on its way to Rexxentrum when it was stolen. Then we turned up, and the rest is history.”

“Do you think it is connected to this?” Caleb made a sweeping gesture at the approaching darkness. 

“Oh, definitely. In fact, I think that’s why I—no, not me, _Lucien_ —had Veltov conduct that horrible ritual in the first place.”

“Because of the darkness? It hadn’t begun, three years ago.”

“No. But the people behind it? They did.” He tilted his head, reconsidering. “Well, they’re not _people._ Gods.”

Understanding flashed across Caleb’s face. “The Betrayer Gods. They are preparing for another war.”

“I’m afraid so. And Asmodeus? He’s the snake’s head.”

“You wanted to chop off that head.”

“It didn’t go to plan. Unsurprising, looking back on it. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Too cocky for my own good.” Molly smiled sardonically, hoping to lighten the mood. Caleb didn’t even crack a smile. Molly sighed. “The ritual opened a portal to Nessus, the Ninth Layer of Hell. The Fateblade, which Veltov used on me during the ritual, was supposed to send my soul directly to Asmodeus. Blood Hunters, we’re trained to fight not only in the physical plane, but in the spirit planes as well. Even if our bodies are dying, our souls can keep fighting. It’s a neat trick; I’ll show you sometime.”

Caleb frowned. “Please don’t.”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

Caleb ducked his head. Even in the approaching twilight, Molly noticed color rising in his cheeks. “Please,” Caleb said. “Continue.”

“That’s really all there is to it. I went to Hell to fight Asmodeus, and for some insane reason, I thought I could win. Turns out I needed the Conduit to have even a one in ten million chance of succeeding.”

“I’ve read,” Caleb said, “that no one knows where Asmodeus’s true form is hidden. He doesn’t trust anyone. Not the archdevils, or even his Consort Queen.”

Molly threw back his head and laughed, long and loud. “Oh, definitely not. From what I remember, they hated each other. They also loved each other, of course, but there wasn’t any trust, that’s for damn sure.” As he spoke, the white creature in his chest stirred, flexing bloodied claws. He readjusted his folded arms and rested his chin on the back of one bejeweled hand. “I think I knew about Asmodeus’s true form, because that’s what the ritual was meant to do.”

“To take you directly to him?”

“As far as I know, which isn’t far.”

Caleb half-smiled. “How did you intend to kill him?” 

“With the Fateblade, I believe. It has a soul, too, in a way. It’s sentient—it carries some aspect of Bensozia’s essence, and like you said, Bensozia doesn’t trust Asmodeus, and the other way around. In fact, she hates him. I could write a book on all the relationship bullshit I saw go down in the Hells.”

“Jester would buy that book.”

“No question. The number of scandals and affairs that I heard about in my ten short years in the Citadel of Malsheem… you wouldn’t believe the drama devils stir up.” 

Molly shot Caleb a sidelong glance. Caleb still wasn’t looking at him. “Anyway, the Fateblade has a soul, and I intended to wield its spirit form against Asmodeus. If anything could kill him, it would be that sword. He created it to kill gods, and at the end of the day, no matter how many armies he commands or cities he conquers, he’s still just a god.”

Caleb laughed, soft and real. Lighter than Molly had ever heard it, and his heart soared at the sound. “Listen to you, Mollymauk. You are still too cocky for your own good.”

Molly tilted his head, playing coy. “Am I?” He grinned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Caleb moved closer. He pressed his shoulder against Molly’s, smiling and shaking his head. He stared out over the city, blinking against the growing dark.

“The Betrayer Gods are powerful, yes. But without their leader, they don’t stand a chance. Devils are organized. Asmodeus is obsessed with order, and orders. It’s bloody insane, the class system they have in the Hells. The legions are completely indistinguishable one from another. A lawful society of infernal bastards.”

“You’re saying that if we kill Asmodeus we could prevent another Calamity.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But we’d certainly up our chances.”

Caleb was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed, shaking his head. “It is pointless to discuss this. The ritual is gone. It was destroyed, wasn’t it? Along with your memories of it.”

Molly raised an eyebrow. “You’re right, I don’t remember it,” he agreed. “I don’t think I ever understood the ritual, and I certainly couldn’t cast it myself. However—” he held up a finger as Caleb opened his mouth, “—the ritual wasn’t completely lost. There’s a copy of it that survived.”

Caleb’s eyes widened. He pushed off from the parapets, gaining his full height, staring warily at Molly. “Do you know where it is?”

“Oh, yes.” Molly gestured to himself with one sparkling, many-ringed hand. “It’s been here all along.”

“I don’t—” Caleb began. And then he stopped, hands clenching into fists, blinking rapidly. His face was a mask of curiosity and surprise. “Your coat?”

“My coat.” Molly spread his hands and gave a little half-bow. He felt as giddy now as he had when he’d first made the connection. “Gustav gave me this coat when I first joined the carnival. I taught myself to embroider, and these symbols, they just… poured out of me.” He flashed his fangs in a bright grin. “It’s a code, Caleb.”

Caleb took a hesitant step toward him. He reached out, fingers hovering over the rich fabric. Molly cocked his head, watching emotions play across Caleb’s face like clouds racing across a spring sky. “Feel free to touch all you like,” he said.

Caleb ducked his head, murmured something unintelligible, and ran his fingers over the bright symbols woven across a canvas of red. Molly couldn’t look away. Caleb studied the symbols, and Molly studied Caleb. After a very long ten seconds, Caleb stepped back. Molly exhaled, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, Caleb had returned to the parapets, standing rigid and unmoving, eyes fixed on the growing shadow swallowing the stars. Molly stepped up beside him, following his gaze.

“Even with the ritual,” Caleb said softly, “it is hopeless, Mollymauk.” His hand strayed to the pocket of his coat. Molly watched him begin to draw something out, then pause, extracting his hand and clenching it into an empty fist. “I can’t bring myself to believe that there is any version of this war where we survive.”

Molly put his hand on Caleb’s fist. Warmth flashed between them, fire passing through their blood. “I’ve found,” Molly said, “that it’s the hopeful acts of hopeless people that make all the difference in the world.”

Caleb unclenched his fist and turned it over. He threaded his fingers through Molly’s. His eyes flickered over Molly’s face, methodically slow and thorough. _He’s memorizing me,_ Molly realized, and smiled as warmth washed over him like summer rain. He exhaled, closing his eyes. The burning whiteness in his chest faded. 

“Mollymauk,” Caleb whispered. He cupped Molly’s face. Molly inhaled sharply as Caleb’s thumb brushed over the ridge of his cheekbone. The look on Caleb’s face was so vulnerable and open, blue eyes catching the silver light of the rising moon. Caleb smiled. The sadness in his expression drained away, and in that moment, bathed in moonlight and crowned in silver, Caleb looked like a god of light, an ethereal being fallen to earth.

Molly put a hand on Caleb’s neck. Under his palm, Caleb’s pulse raced, wild and unsteady. “It’s alright, Caleb.” 

Caleb leaned down just enough for their lips to brush. 

Molly smiled and wrapped an arm around Caleb’s waist, pulling him closer. “Do it properly,” he said, “or not at all.”

Caleb kissed him, and he tilted his chin up and smiled against Caleb’s lips. Caleb closed his eyes. Molly kept his open, watching tiny flickers of emotion cross Caleb’s features as he pulled back and rested their foreheads together, the tips of their noses brushing. Molly laughed softly. Caleb smiled, one hand still threaded through Molly’s hair, and opened his eyes. 

Molly met his gaze directly. 

Caleb didn’t look away.

“Was that okay?” Caleb whispered, and Molly grabbed him by the front of his coat, holding him close.

“More than okay. Exceptional. Fantastic. Wonderful.” Molly grinned as Caleb ducked his head, muttering something incomprehensible. Molly put a hand on Caleb’s cheek, the other sliding down to grip Caleb’s hip. When Caleb raised his head again, he was blushing faintly, staring at the right side of Molly’s face. _The tattoo,_ Molly realized. His suspicions were confirmed when, a moment later, Caleb ran his fingers over the lines of blue and green ink, tracing them. Memorizing them.

Caleb half-smiled. “I think that you’ve wanted me to do that for a very long time.”

Molly laughed, equally surprised and delighted. “Oh, is that right?” He summoned an expression of false indignance. “Really. Who do you think I am, Caleb?” 

“I think,” Caleb said, meeting Molly’s eyes again, “that you are Mollymauk Tealeaf.”

“Ah. And is that still enough for you?”

Caleb smiled a full, bright smile, untouched by grief or anxiety. “You will always be enough for me, Molly.”

Molly opened his mouth, unsure he could find the words to reply, when he was rescued by the distant sound of Jester’s voice. “Caleb! Caleb, are you up there? I want to draw some pictures and stuff for the Traveler on the walls of the Solstryce assembly room, but Nott said I should ask you to come with us so that we don’t get in trouble or anything. Caaaaleb!”

Caleb sighed, and Molly smirked, kissing him again. When they pulled away, breathless and laughing, Molly shook his head, taking Caleb’s face in his hands. “You should go before Jester comes up here and sees this.”

“We would never hear the end of it.”

Molly kissed the corner of Caleb’s mouth. He patted his cheek, smiling with his whole body. “Well? Go on. Plenty of time for this later.”

Caleb turned and crossed the patio, pausing beside the stairwell leading into the heart of the tower. He looked back over his shoulder, and the moonlight caught in his hair, wreathing his face in silver fire. “Thank you, Mollymauk.”

Molly tilted his head. “For what?”

“For being you. Even after everything.”

Molly beamed at him. “You’re a wonderful man, Caleb Widogast. Now for the love of all that’s holy, go stop Jester from drawing dicks on the Assembly’s walls. We may have the king’s favor, but favor only goes so far.”

Caleb laughed quietly. “Goodnight, Mollymauk.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

Caleb disappeared into the tower. Molly waited for a long moment, staring at the place where he’d vanished, then returned to the parapets. Reaching under his coat, he pulled out the card he’d stolen from Caleb’s pocket. 

He turned it over.

The Moon, elegant and mysterious, cloaked in shadow. The edges of the card were burned, a dark, sooty stain spreading from the center of the woman’s chest. Molly held it up in the fading silver light.

_You’re standing on top of a tower._

Molly let the card go. It spun away, drifting on an unseen wind. In the courtyard below, the crowd cried out as an impenetrable shadow slid over the city. Molly looked up at the edge of the growing dark, standing on the brink, head held high, bathed in silver.

_The light is inside you._

The cries grew louder. Molly clenched his fists. His heart beat painfully fast. The pale creature in his chest unfurled scaled wings, eyes burning and flickering, two points of blinding white in a sea of endless black.

_You close your eyes._

Night swooped over the city. Molly watched the stars die in bursts of silver and gold. The darkness swallowed them one by one until the moon hung alone in the sky. Molly stood there, head held high, burning bright in the last light of the midnight sun.

In the east, a flash of blinding white. A roll of thunder, and a smell like sulfur and ash.

_You fall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Frodo Baggins voice* I am glad you are here with me, here at the end of all things. 
> 
> IT'S OVER!! IT'S FINALLY OVER!! First and foremost, I want to say the biggest, loudest, most sincere and enthusiastic THANK YOU to everyone who read, commented, left kudos, messaged me on Tumblr, or supported me and this story in any other way! I love you all so very, very much!! <3 I can't tell you how grateful I am for all your kind comments and feedback, and for the encouragement when my motivation and writing self-esteem flagged from time to time. Y'all are the real MVPs and I appreciate you more than I can ever hope to say in any of the languages of man (or dwarves, or elves, or tieflings, or... you get the point!)
> 
> This is the last actual chapter of the story, but I think I'm gonna add another "chapter" after this to share my character playlists and any other "making of" information about this story in case anyone is interested. :) And to post some stuff about Book #2, which I'm currently working on planning and outlining!! <3 And of course I would absolutely fucking love to hear what y'all thought of the story overall now that it's over. I know I've already said it, but thank you again for your support! <3 I'm so excited to start writing the next book ASAP! :D
> 
> So anyway, here's to endings, and the new beginnings they bring!! Happy Solstice! I love you all so much!! <3


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